The blood from my lip was soaking through the washcloth and staining his own fingers.
I couldn’t speak around it, but I didn’t think I would have, anyway.
My heart pounded so loudly I could feel it in my ears. As if it was pumping my head like a balloon. I wondered if he could feel it too, under his thumb.
I didn’t know anything about him. Not really.
Where he was from. His full name. What his life looked like before he turned to petty theft in small-town bars.
I had told him everything.
Did I have the right to ask for the same?
Or should I just let it come—if it ever did?
After the bleeding was under control, I escaped to the bathroom and washed my hands, staring at myself in the mirror as I tried to steady my heart rate. Even after splashing cold water on my face, I could still feel his hand in my hair and see the way the dim motel light framed him as he focused on my busted lip. His expression had softened as he held my mouth closed—a gesture I should have pulled away from, but couldn’t, even as my trauma twisted in my stomach.
Erich insisted I take the bed and said he’d sleep on the couch. I’d never had to sleep in the same room as a man before—let alone anyone. I wasn’t allowed sleepovers growing up, no matter how much I begged. My parents saw them as sinful, even with girls they approved of. Looking back, maybe they imagined something out of a movie—girls whispering about boys, sneaking alcohol, experimenting with each other.
But I had just wanted to play with dolls, do makeup, and be normal. They never believed it could be innocent. They didn’t even let me learn what sex was until I overheard older girls talking about it—because they mentioned Reed.
Funny. Look at what their version of “growing up” meant for me.
So, to avoid any awkwardness, Erich took a pillow and blanket and settled onto the worn floral couch, despite my telling him it didn’t matter. It felt like an unnecessary line to draw. The bed was big enough—I could have stayed on one side and not touched him.
But sleep didn’t come easily. My mind kept circling the same thought: I was in over my head. Erich didn’t owe me what he did in that parking lot, and I still didn’t understand his motives.
Whether I could keep up with him was another question entirely. I wasn’t comfortable with this life—not even close—but it was better than the alternatives.
Going home.
Or being on my own and hoping for the best.
Chapter 9 – May 25, 1993 – Sergeant Aileen Taylor
It had been a quiet day at the Norwald Police Department. Not out of the ordinary, though the mundane tormented the staff on a daily basis. Sergeant Taylor had spent her morning writing a case report on a suspected meth dealer, only to stop halfway through and watch the clock on the wall tick slowly toward 5:00, when it would signal her agonizing completion. It was only 11:00.
Sergeant Taylor huffed, tapping her desk impatiently before attempting to give herself a motivational speech to finish her report. She had aged young. At thirty-nine, she had graying brown hair, permanent bags under her eyes, and, when she wasn’t in uniform, she stuck to gray, baggy clothes to hide the toll time and stress had taken on her body. Years of desk work, rather than being out in the field on actual cases, had damaged her back to the point of hunched shoulders and a punch card to the local chiropractor. Her eyesight seemed to be worseningfaster than she would’ve liked, but she had stubbornly decided she wasn’t quite there yet to wear glasses full-time.
Her desk phone’s sharp trill broke the silence—and her weak attempt to push through her report. Sergeant Taylor let it ring twice before picking up, just to give the impression she wasn’t bored out of her mind.
“Norwald Police, you’ve got Sergeant Taylor.”
“Hey, Aileen—just Carol at the front desk.” Carol was perky, with the bouncy Southern twang expected of a secretary in Tennessee. She was nearing retirement age, but every time Sergeant Taylor asked, she didn’t have a date set yet. “I have a Bruce Miller here to report an assault. Can I send him back?”
“Hi, Carol. Yeah, I’ll take him,” Sergeant Taylor answered out of habit, then paused. “Wait. An assault? In our town? That’s unusual.”
Sergeant Taylor heard Carol cover the receiver, her muffled voice directed at “Bruce.” A moment of shuffling followed before Carol came back on the line.
“Sorry about that. Yes, but he looks the part.” Carol lowered her voice, and Sergeant Taylor could picture her covering her mouth and the phone to keep the victim from hearing—or reading her lips. “You’ll tell me all about it later, won’t you?”
Sergeant Taylor rolled her eyes, glancing at the ceiling before responding. “Carol, you know that’s not how I operate.”
“Worth a shot,” Carol said, her cheerful tone snapping back into place. “Alright, I’m sending him to your office.”
“Thank you.”
Sergeant Taylor hung up, and within a minute, the man who was about to change the pace of her day stood in the doorway.
