I want to rip that guy to shreds. The way he smiled, casual and easygoing, like just another guy taking care of his drunk girlfriend. And I almost bought it.
Almost.
My gut never steers me wrong. Not now, not twenty years ago. Tonight’s situation wasn’t even a mission, something I’m being paid for. No, I was just being a good Samaritan and now for some inexplicable reason, it feels like I’m embroiled in something important.
“But they talked a lot. About how I wasn’t like the other girls.”
“In what way?” the detective asks.
“Older. There were special instructions for me too.”
“Special instructions?”
“I don’t think they used condoms with others,” Allora continues slowly. “I’m not sure, because I was pretty drugged up, but they said something like, ‘don’t get this one pregnant—the boss will be pissed.’ I don’t know if I dreamed that part.”
“Were your injuries inflicted when they abducted you or later?” Detective James asks.
She hesitates. “Later. Because when I woke up…I fought.”
I grimace.
Most people are aware that there’s no chance of winning under those circumstances, and she’s a hundred and ten pounds, if that. I feel a swell of pride, because many women would have just given up.
But Allora didn’t.
Outnumbered and completely vulnerable, she still fought back.
“You fought how?” Detective Roswell asks softly.
Her eyes snap up—clear and sharp for the first time tonight. “How do you think? I kicked and screamed and clawed at his eyes.”
“While he was raping you?”
“Should I have just laid there and let them do it?” she demands incredulously.
“There’s no right or wrong answer,” the detective says gently. “We’re just trying to find out what happened.”
Allora swallows. “I was raised to fight back, so I did. Until…he punched me in the face hard enough to knock me out. When I came to, the other guy was holding me down.” She turns away at this point, obviously emotional. Her fingers have a death grip on the sheet and her lower lip trembles every so often.
And I fucking hate it.
I close my eyes, trying to clear my head, stop imagining what it had to be like for her.
She went through hell so why am I the one who feels like I want to puke?
I’ve never been in a situation like this before and I don’t know why it’s impacting me the way it is. I spent a lot of time in theMiddle East when I was in the Marines, and I saw a lot of sick shit.
But this is different.
Personal.
I just wish I knew why.
She goes into more detail, answering every damn question with clarity. Even when her eyes fill with tears and she blinks them away. Even when she chokes on the words coming out as if the telling of the story is physically painful.
And all I can do is sit here and watch.
I don’t know if I could or should touch her.
