by R. H. Herron
Impulsively, she reached down to hug her mother’s shoulders. It was awkward—she’d never hugged her mother from above. Mom’s nose hit her clavicle, and Jojo banged her head lightly on the blood pressure machine. “Love you.”
Her mother made a noise. Jojo couldn’t hear exactly what she said, but it made her want to wail.
Gloria waited, still with that warmth in her eyes. “This way, Jojo. I’m going to be right here with you, the whole time.”
Behind them Jojo heard her mother say softly, “Me too.”
SIX
LAURIE HAD TO pee, which was ridiculous. It was a bodily betrayal. That goddamn coffee in dispatch. She couldn’t go to the bathroom now, because she couldn’t leave this chair in case Jojo looked for her.
Jojo had been twenty feet from a murdered man.
Omid had texted that they’d identified him as a friend of Leeds’s, and that Leeds had lost his total shit when he’d been told he was being arrested. Omid had to help take him in, and then he’d get here. It should be soon.
Until then Laurie would stay right here in this chair. In case Jojo needed her.
Surely if Jojo insisted, Gloria would let Laurie be in the room for the kit, right?
The kit.
Laurie had said it a million times at work after rape calls.
Did they do the kit yet?
That question came right before the next, inevitable one:
You think it’s a good rape?
It was just what they said. What cops had always said.
A good rape.
“Good” meant that it fulfilled the categories to fit the penal code for the crime. A good robbery wasn’t a guy stealing a toolbox out of your truck while you were getting breakfast—it was when your toolbox got taken out of your hands, using force (strength) or fear (a threat or a weapon).
A good rape meant a forced rape by a stranger.
A good rape was one that hadn’t been committed by a boyfriend after a few drinks. Sure, Laurie knew that one was still a rape. But it wasn’t the kind the papers wrote about or the kind that got a whole department upset. A good rape was a grab-from-the-bushes horror show. The kind of rape all women feared, that almost never happened in this small, affluent, Bay Area city. A good rape was one that left evidence behind, as opposed to the kind that many women called in about days later, with no proof.
And Laurie was just like everyone else at the station.
Doubtful.
Callous.
Sure, we’ll see what the rape kit says. Probably not a good one.
God. They were fucking awful. The air left her lungs in a whoosh, and she leaned forward, wrapping her arms around her knees. Blood rushed back to her head, and the urge to urinate increased.
Her baby girl, with her feet in stirrups. It was so invasive. And that wasn’t the half of the invasion that had—no, make that might have—taken place.
God fucking forbid something like that had happened to her daughter. She gagged on the rage that twisted up her throat.
Her phone pinged.
Omid. Almost there.
Another text had come in at some point from Sarah Knight at work. She okay?
Sarah worked in the jail. That meant the news was all over the department. Laurie dragged her hand across her mouth. She typed, I have no idea. She might have been raped by a football player or maybe by his dead friend. She pushed SEND.
A second later her phone rang.
Sarah’s voice was intense and tight. “You want me to come there?”
“You’re working.”
“You need someone.”
“Omid’s coming.”
“He’ll be busy, you know that. I can pull in a rookie to help Bob, and I can be with you and our girl. Just sit with you.”
A tight warmth wrapped around Laurie’s heart. The department was her home, her safety. “No, stay there.” The jail was running on even slimmer staffing than dispatch was. “I’ll—we’ll—take you up on it later, okay?”
“I’ll help you kill him. If you need me to.” Sarah cleared her throat. “Of course, let me state for the record that I’m joking.”
Laurie knew she wasn’t. “Thanks, friend.”
“Hang in there. I’ll call again later.”
Laurie slipped her cell into her pocket and rubbed her forehead.
Her mind raced. There had to be more she could do. There had to be something to fix this entire situation. It wasn’t too late.
The image of flames dancing up a white wall rose in her mind.
When Laurie was twelve, the dryer had caught on fire. The lint. She’d forgotten to take it out for a month, maybe more. She’d managed the rest of the house as her father drank himself to sleep by two every afternoon, as her mother—sober but just as absent as her father—painted late into the night. Laurie had learned early to write out the rent check and slide it to her father to sign before she stuck it in the mail. She bought groceries at the local convenience market. Her parents weren’t terrible people, they were just neglectful. They loved her, but as soon as Laurie had proved herself trustworthy, they’d gratefully relied on her, bragging about her to their friends. She handles it all—she wants to! Cutest thing.
But everything had been a crisis to Laurie; any slip of focus could bring the house crashing down around her. Emergency: the sink, when it stopped up and flooded the kitchen. Emergency: when the bird smashed through the front window. Emergency: when the furnace went out. Laurie handled each, learning who to call, what to say, how to avoid further disaster.
That day, as she’d watched the flames lick up the wall behind the dryer, she knew she’d failed. Everything her family owned would turn to ash, and it would be her fault.
But her father had come to life behind her, shoving her outside onto the porch while with the other hand he sprayed the fire with the extinguisher Laurie had made her parents buy. Everything had turned out fine, but for that split second as the fire hissed and snapped and grew faster than anything should, Laurie had felt it all slip away.
Catastrophe was inevitable, how had she dared to think anything else?
Now, as she sat in the hospital chair, three more texts bounced across the screen. Steiner. Dyer. Rogers. The department was a better family than the one Laurie had grown up in. And Jojo was one of theirs. This was just the start of the onslaught of questions.
How is she?
What’s happening?
Is she okay?
Laurie pressed her hand against her upper abdomen. Was she having a panic attack? She’d never had one before, but she’d heard them thousands of times on 911, and her breathing was sounding familiar to her—it was hitched, caught on the spines of terror in her throat. She had no time for it.
No. This was just normal panic, rising out of a good reason. Laurie shook her head. There was that idiotic word again: good.
Think about something else.
Harper.
Harper was back? What the hell was going on?
It was impossible. She would know if Jojo and Harper were hanging out. Wouldn’t she?
Laurie scanned her phone again, ignoring the sweat that ran down the center of her spine and her increasingly desperate need to pee.
No new messages. Jojo hadn’t texted saying she needed her yet.
The image of Kevin Leeds filled her mind, so huge and wide-shouldered. The dead man in the closet, his teeth gleaming white through the ripped lip, through the mouthful of blood.
How did her daughter know men like that?
And for the love of God, Jojo and Harper hadn’t spoken for the last two years. If this was truly happening, it had to be Harper’s fault.
Everything had always been Harper’s fault.
Jojo didn’t have a spot in her body for hiding things. She was easy to read, open, generous with her
thoughts and affection.
What the fuck, then, was happening?
Laurie crossed her legs tighter. And she waited.
SEVEN
THE EXAMINING ROOM Gloria took Jojo to looked like where she’d gotten her Pap smear last year, the only other time she’d had a pelvic exam. There was the horrible big bed thing with the splayed stirrups, and a rolling tray had silver devices all over it. Waiting for her.
Gloria opened a drawer and pulled out a pair of beige socks wrapped in plastic. She unwrapped them and put them over the stirrups. “That’s a little better, anyway.”
“Can I keep my shoes on?”
Gloria gave her a long, steady look. “It’ll be head-to-toe. Remember we talked about that in my office?”
They’d gone together to a small blue office before coming here to the Pap smear room to do the rape kit. Sexual-assault forensic exam was what Gloria had said. But rape kit was what Mom and Dad called it when they were talking about work. Jojo was just doing it now because it was a good idea. That was all. Jojo didn’t remember talking about its being head-to-toe. Was that the drug? “Even my shirt? My bra?”
“They’re going to swab you all over, and then they’ll use that comb I told you about. They’re going to look at places that no one usually looks at, but I’ll be right here with you the whole time, I promise. I’m not going anywhere. They’ll probably keep your underwear—”
Jojo gave an involuntary squeak.
“—but I’ve got fresh ones in my bag. Clean and new. I’ve also got a brand-new sweatshirt and sweatpants, if you don’t feel like getting back into those clothes.”
“I don’t.” Suddenly the idea of sliding the jeans back on horrified Jojo. They should be burned.
“You’ve got this. Now. Here’s a drape to lay over your lower half, and put this stupid-looking thing on like a shirt, opening in front, okay? I’ll turn my back or leave the room while you change, whatever you prefer.”
“Please stay?” Jojo’s neck muscles felt tight, and her fingers clenched.
“You got it. Let me know if I can help with anything.”
Jojo tried to ignore the voice that cried for her mother, tried to drown it out with motion. She took off her boots, then her jeans and underwear. She stripped off her shirt and bra. Fear rippled through her as if someone were going to attack her here, in the hospital, under Gloria’s watchful eye. She hopped up onto the bed, draped the blue paper apron over her lap, and said, “Okay.”
“Now, if you’re ready, I’ll go get the nurse.”
Jojo said the word quickly before she lost the ability to speak: “Yes.”
“Want your mom?”
Yes, yes, yes, yes. “No, thank you.”
“I’ll be right back.”
The nurse who brought in a white cardboard box wasn’t anything like Gloria. She was short, with cropped dark hair. She moved with purpose, her shoes silent on the floor. She said hello to Jojo without smiling. She explained everything clinically, describing what each piece of equipment was for.
“I’ll tell you what I’m doing before I do it. You might feel a little bit of a pinch, but we’re not going into the cervix, like we do with a Pap smear, so it’s less invasive.”
Less invasive? Less invasive was a paper cut patched with a Kermit Band-Aid. “I think I’m fine,” Jojo said to the nurse. “This is just in case.”
The nurse nodded.
“I mean, I feel fine. Totally fine.” But she didn’t. The pain between her legs just seemed to be getting worse now that her flesh was exposed to air.
The nurse sat on the stool and rolled it between Jojo’s legs.
Jojo’s knees started to shake. Gloria had moved like magic to Jojo’s side. “Want a hand to hold?”
Desperately, Jojo wanted to say no. And equally desperately she wanted to cry, and maybe that wouldn’t happen if she were clutching Gloria’s hand the way she already was without even realizing she’d grabbed it.
“This is the visual inspection.” The nurse moved a lamp that screeched on the floor. “First the pelvic check, to get it over with, then the head-to-toe.”
Gloria winked at her. “Can you feel the heat from the light?”
Jojo wouldn’t have noticed if it hadn’t been pointed out. It would have been kind of nice if she hadn’t been in hell. “Yeah.”
“How about your toes? Are they cold?”
It was a trick, Jojo knew, a trick to get her thinking about any other part of her body besides her vagina, and she was grateful. “No, they’re okay.”
“Now you’ll feel the speculum. Might be a little cold.”
A little cold? Jojo jerked backward. When she’d gotten the Pap smear, the speculum had been terrifying, but at least it had been small and pink and prewarmed. This one was huge and silver and made of ice.
And it hurt, stinging in a place she shouldn’t sting. She wasn’t a virgin (mostly not one, anyway), but she’d never hurt like this there: like lemon juice poured on a million tiny paper cuts.
“Stay still.” The nurse’s voice was curt.
Jojo coughed and felt herself tighten around the speculum, which scared her so much she choked on her next breath. Coughing again made the fear and the pain worse.
Gloria still held Jojo’s hand and used her other hand to smooth back Jojo’s hair, just like Mom used to do when she had a fever.
“Do you have kids?” Jojo’s voice came out too loud, but Gloria didn’t even flinch, keeping her eyes firmly on Jojo’s.
“I do. I have three. You want me to tell you about them?”
“Yes, please,” gasped Jojo. “Tell me everything.”
EIGHT
“WHERE IS SHE?” Omid yanked back the curtain.
Laurie jumped to her feet. “She’s with the advocate. I have to pee.”
In the minute and a half it took her to find the restroom, pee, and wash her hands, Omid had vanished from the ER cubicle.
“Omid?” Shit, what if he’d gone looking for Jojo? No, that wasn’t a what-if, that was a for-certain. “Omid!”
He hadn’t gotten far—he stood at the nurses’ station. His uniform shirt was tight across his back, pulling against his chest and bulletproof vest.
“Omid, she’s fine.”
He whirled on her, his cop face in place. His lips were drawn back, his eyes strained. Gray stubble broke along his jaw, even though he shaved twice a day. Rigid cords of muscle stood out in his neck. When she’d worked the street with him, that was the face he got before they had to thump someone down or after an unfruitful foot pursuit, except he looked a little green, too. “She’s not fine. Jesus Christ, someone tell me where my daughter is.”
Laurie tugged him away from the desk, pulling on the edge of his sleeve. “She’s getting the kit done.”
He straightened. “And you’re not with her?”
Laurie’s stomach churned. She should be there. “No.”
“We’ll find her. You need to be with her for that.”
“No.”
“Then me.” Omid had already turned back to the nurse. “Where—”
“No. She doesn’t want us. Tell me about the man in the closet.”
“What?” He spun again, a rigid top wobbling to and fro. “She doesn’t get to make that decision.”
“That’s exactly the decision she gets to make. It’s her body, and she’s the one in charge of it.” Saying it out loud made the words true to Laurie, and the fact that she’d almost tried to force her way into the exam room made her feel ashamed.
“She’s sixteen. We’re in charge of her body.” Omid scrubbed his hand over his face. “So we wait? That’s all we do?”
Laurie nodded. She took his hand and led him back to the cubicle they’d been in, where she’d left her jacket and purse.
She sat. Omid was pacing, and she knew he
wouldn’t stop. The man was made of action, muscle, and grit. Even now that he was chief, he sometimes worked all night on major cases, staying up with the detectives, bouncing ideas around. He pulled ID shifts to make sure he understood the new tech. He knew how to dispatch and pitched in when they were shorthanded. Paper pushing wasn’t enough for him. He felt great pride in taking care of the people he loved at the department.
And that was nothing compared to how he loved his daughter.
Right now, somewhere so close to them, Jojo was probably scared out of her damn mind. Laurie tasted bile at the back of her throat but managed to say, “She’ll be okay.” Jesus, had she made a mistake not going with her?
Omid glared. “Of course she will be. She’ll be fine.”
Laurie dragged her thoughts back to Kevin Leeds. “Did you take him in?”
He nodded shortly.
“How did it go?” She could imagine, but she wanted to hear it. Desperately, Laurie needed to know that the man hurt.
“Not so smoothly. For him.”
“Good.”
“Yeah.” Omid didn’t meet her eyes.
“What?”
He shook his head. The greenish pallor under his cheekbones grew a deeper yellow.
“Omid, tell me what the fuck happened there.”
“The guy in the closet was an assistant athletic trainer on the team. Zachary Gordon. Tight with Leeds. Blunt-force trauma to the head, unknown weapon.”
“Did Leeds kill him?” Of course he had.
Omid rubbed his hands together as if he were cold. “I don’t know. When we asked him about Gordon, he crumpled like a paper bag. Broke down, tear factory, the works. Said he’d been sleeping for two hours.”
“Good actor, that’s all.”
“We found more blood. Near the kitchen door. It didn’t match the spatter that was in the closet—could have been tracked there or . . .”
Laurie’s heart rate spiked, and nausea flooded her throat. “Whose blood?” Please make it Leeds’s blood. Let it be Zachary Gordon’s blood. Let Jojo have hurt them first.
