by Jo Raven
The kids are waiting in front of the apartment door, and I pull out the keys and unlock it. The moment the door is open, they run inside, whisper-yelling something to one another.
I arch a brow at Dylan, who shrugs.
Hm.
“Do you think maybe Megan gave them too much chocolate? That looked like sugar rush to me.”
“Nah. They’re excited about something.”
“About what?”
“How would I know?”
Something about the way he won’t look at me as he hangs his jacket has alarms going off inside my head. What is he hiding from me?
Should I worry?
I shrug off my coat and hang it next to his jacket, then turn to ask him what he’s playing at, when he heads off into the bedroom, leaving me gaping after him.
Well, now. Honestly?
Muttering to myself, I start for the bedroom, but the door is closed, and I hesitate, suddenly wondering if Dylan was more upset by not finding Kenneth Shaw today than I thought.
I step back, troubled, and turn toward the kids’ room. Their door is shut, too, and I knock on it, before I try the handle.
Locked?
“Kids, open up! You’re not supposed to lock this door.”
The handle rattles, then the door opens, and in a strange twist from this morning, a suspicious blue eye looks up at me.
“It’s not locked,” Miles says.
“Then why wouldn’t it open?”
“How would I know?” he says, a perfect imitation of his older brother.
I shake my head. “What are you guys doing?” I try to peer inside the room. “Are you making something?”
“Nosy.” Miles wags a finger at me.
And closes the door in my face.
What in the world?
“Miles!” I rap on the door, then change my mind and turn toward our bedroom. Enough of this today. I’m rattled from this morning’s happenings, too, and I need to be in Dylan’s arms, without any of this weirdness, whatever it means.
I turn the handle, open the door.
And Dylan hides something behind his back, his expression guilty.
All right, I’ve had enough. “What’s going on?” I practically wail at him. “Dyl?”
“Trust me?” he asks, and I nod even as my heart is pounding.
“Yes. You know that. But—”
He reaches for my hand. “Come with me.”
Speechless, I follow him to the living room and let him place me in the middle of it, the apartment door behind me.
“Dylan?”
He pulls something from his back pocket and drops to one knee in front of me. “Tessa.”
I put my hands over my mouth. “What are you doing?” Muffled.
Oh God. Oh my God.
Behind him, Miles and Teo approach, both holding bunches of flowers. Not roses, I note absently, my mind on overload. Chrysanthemums, and gerberas, and freesias. Colorful. Summery. Happy.
The door behind me opens, and I turn as if in a dream to see our friends standing there, grinning. They file inside, one after the other. All of them. There are even some of the Damage Boys with their girls.
I’m feeling faint. Because all this…
“Do you know what day it is today?” Dylan asks, drawing my attention back to him.
“Oh God. Is it an anniversary?” Is this what this is?
I can’t keep track. Except for his birthday, and the kids’.
“It will be an anniversary.” He opens his hand, revealing a small box, and then he opens that, too, revealing a ring. “If you accept this ring.”
I’m feeling hot and cold. I open my mouth to speak, but then Miles and Teo walk toward me, their faces serious, holding up the flowers to me.
“Please marry Dylan,” they tell me in unison, and I giggle even as tears well up in my eyes. “Please be our mom. You make us all happy.”
Holy crap.
I take the two bunches and crouch down to kiss them. When I straighten, Dylan is standing before me, holding the ring.
“What do you say?” he asks quietly, and for a moment I forget that all our friends are standing behind us, silent, seeing only him. “I thought for a long time how to ask you to marry me. And then I realized it wasn’t only me who should ask, but my brothers, too. Because they love you as much as I do. What do you say, Tess?”
“Yes.” I practically fall in Dylan’s arms and he laughs, catching me. “Oh God, yes. It was perfect.”
Suddenly there’s applause and wolf-whistles, and Teo and Miles come to put their arms around us, too. I adjust my hold to bring them into the circle. I don’t even know where the ring is, if it has fallen and vanished through a crack in the floor.
I don’t care. I have everything I want, right here.
This is my family, and I love them more than anything in the world.
PART IV
Rafe and Megan
This Is War
Chapter Twenty Two
Rafe
The police station is a maze, but I pretend I know what I’m doing as I lead Zane and Dakota through it.
I insisted to be the one to accompany them. I’d been away when they found the house, and I felt… I dunno. Like I let Zane down. I know it’s not true, I know someone had to keep the tattoo shop running, but the moment I heard about him going to the police, I volunteered.
No regrets.
Except I hate police stations. I hate police bureaucracy, and procedure, and the rigid order facing you when you fucking fall apart.
Like I did when my family was killed. When I had to recount the events that led to the death of my parents and sister to an officer while I was in the hospital, the stab wound in my shoulder stitched up and bandaged, my mind an echoing void.
And again later, when I was discharged from there.
And again.
I’ve never gotten along with the law. My father was a Mafioso. I fought in an illegal fight club to find out who killed him. As far as I’m concerned, the law has failed me time and again. It has failed lots of people around me. Too rigid. Too exact.
Too just. Just not enough.
Yet here I am, accompanying my best friend to report a crime that happened long ago, with few hopes of finding justice.
My cell phone rings, and I pull it out of my back pocket. It’s Megan. “Hey, girl. We’ve just entered the police station.”
“I’m coming in to find you.”
I frown, slow down. “Everything okay?”
“Yes.”
“Did Zay sleep okay?” Tyler renamed him, not to confuse him with Zane, and the nickname stuck.
“He ate and burped and slept, and I left him with Audrey. I want to be there with you.”
“Sure.” I breathe out. “Meet you inside.”
A weight lifts off my chest at the thought of her being by my side. By the time we ask and find our way to the right office, I manage to breathe almost normally again.
Because yeah, I don’t just dislike police stations. The memories associated with them are hell, and my body can’t fucking accept the fact that this isn’t the same time, the same situation.
The same horror. That this isn’t about me, but about Zane.
Or it does get it, and the thought of what happened to Zane, the things he’s about to report, is sending my nervous system into overdrive.
“Is everything all right?” Dakota asks, holding on to Zane’s hand like he’s a lifeline—or maybe he’s the one clutching hers so hard his knuckles are white.
“Yeah. Megan is coming, too. She wants to be here.”
Dakota gives me a quick smile, turns to Zane. “The more the better, right?”
He says nothing, his eyes kinda blank. Fuck, I hope he won’t have a flashback now. I’ve been afraid of that ever since he found out the guy living in that house in Madison, our town, is indeed Kenneth Shaw.
I figure it’s only a matter of time before his mind flips out on him and drags him kicking and screaming back
into the past.
One more reason I decided to tag along today. Least I can do is look out for him, and help if he gets lost inside his own head. God knows I did it plenty of times for Tyler, especially when he first came back and he kept having those episodes.
Returning to the place where you were hurt, seeing the people who used to be part of that past, can easily flip the switch and throw you into a memory. I bet Zane is hanging by a thread to sanity right now, and recounting what happened to him won’t help any.
Word to the wise regarding shrinks and their fucking couches: psychoanalysis can help, but it can also fuck you up even worse. You can ask me about it. It’s how I ended up hooked on pills, and lemme tell ya, withdrawal was a bitch.
So I’m watching over Zane while I explain to the officer why we’re there, and keeping an eye out for Megan.
“What do you want to report?” the nice lady officer asks, and Zane steps forward, his face white but his eyes determined.
No matter how I worry about him, he’s a tough motherfucker. Proof being that he’s here.
“I want to report a man,” he says, “who abused me years ago, when I was a kid.”
The officer looks up at him. Zane’s over six feet tall, the Mohawk making him seem taller, with wide shoulders and the edges of his tattoo sleeves peeking under his jacket.
“How many years ago are we talking here?” she asks.
Zane shifts on his feet, his combat boots squeaking. “Dunno. Twelve, I guess?”
“You guess.” Her face pinches. “How old are you now?”
“Twenty.” He winces. “I think. Look, when I was found and taken into foster care as a kid, my age was estimated, but I don’t know—”
“All I’m saying is, you came in to report this kind of late, young man.” She gives him a long, earnest look. “If the man you say hit you—”
“I didn’t say that. That asshole fucking—”
“Zane.” Dakota tugs on his arm, her big eyes pleading with the woman. “Can’t we do this somewhere more private?”
Zane is panting, red splotches of color on his pale cheeks. He looks disoriented. He glances down at Dakota’s hand on his arm as if he doesn’t know what it is.
Fuck, this doesn’t look good. “Please, ma’am,” I say. “It’s a difficult topic to discuss here.”
A topic. As if we’re talking about routine business, not Zane having to rip his heart out and offer it on a platter in order to make this report.
The officer glances uneasily from him to me and back. “Yes, of course. Come with me.”
She leads us into a small office, and I shoot Megan a text telling her where we are. I want her to hurry and find us before we start, but the door closes and the officer motions us to sit in various plastic chairs.
“Shall we begin?” She shoots Zane a quick smile that I’m sure it’s meant to be reassuring, and opens a file on the small laptop she has perched on the table. “What crime do you want to report?”
Zane rubs the shaved sides of his head and then leans forward, letting his hands dangle between his legs. “I want to report Kenneth Shaw. He burned my back with cigarettes and… and raped me.”
The officer tries to stifle a gasp but fails, her eyes darting up from the laptop to him. Her fingers are frozen, poised on top of the keyboard.
I admit I’m kinda shocked, too, which makes no sense. I know exactly what Zane’s nightmares are about. I’ve suspected something for a long while, and he spelled it out for us recently, but hearing the word spoken out, loud and clear, in this tiny office… It shakes me badly.
Like I wanna go out and put my fist through a wall.
Instead I force myself to stay seated and draw a calming breath.
“All right,” the officer says, quickly typing something, “now I want you to—”
There’s a knock on the door, and before anyone can speak, the door opens to reveal Megan. The sight of her warm chocolate eyes settles something in my chest.
“This is Megan, my girlfriend. She wants to be present for this.”
The officer frowns. “Not sure this is proper procedure. Do you want her to be here?” she asks Zane.
“Yeah.” No hesitation.
The officer nods. “Fine. Please take a seat, Megan.”
“Thank you.” She drags a chair between me and Zane and smooths her skirt over her thighs. “Hi, Zane. Dakota.”
“Let’s proceed.” The officer types something more and cocks her head to the side. “Your name and surname, please.”
“Zane. Zane Madden.”
“May I see an ID?”
He produces it, and she takes down the rest of the information.
“You said the incident took place twelve years ago. So you were roughly…eight?”
“That’s right.”
Megan slips her hand into mine, and I give it a squeeze.
“Normally after waiting this long to report a crime, you shouldn’t be able to file a report.”
Another tense silence.
“What do you mean?” I start to stand up from my chair. “He finally finds the strength to come forward with this, and you won’t let him file a report?”
“Fucker, sit down,” Zane mutters, rubbing his hands over his face.
“Rafe.” Megan tugs me down, and I sink on my chair, my pulse pounding in my ears. “We’re all very tense,” she tells the officer. “Apologies.”
She sighs. She looks tired, although her uniform is crisp and her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun. “The main issue here is the big time lag between now and the incident. Do you have any evidence of what happened? Any witnesses?”
We all turn to Zane.
He shakes his head. “No.”
“Okay. I will open a case, but before I do, please answer this and consider your answer carefully: Do you swear this happened? Are you sure? It’s a long time. Could your memories of the time not be accurate? It’s not that I don’t believe you,” she rushes on to say. “But I want to be as sure as possible that we won’t be accusing an innocent man of a serious crime.”
“He’s not fucking innocent.” Zane’s hands curl into fists and his nostrils flare, and the anger in his eyes is good. Much better than the cold blankness I’ve seen there so often lately. “I am sure. And I have the burns and scars on my back to show for it.”
She pales. “May I see?”
Dakota opens her mouth to say something, but Zane surges to his feet and unzips his jacket. Then before any of us can move, he whips off his sweater and shirt and turns around.
“Oh my God.” The officer lifts a hand to her mouth, but I’m not sure what shocked her more—the scars or the swirling tattoos covering the whole of Zane’s back and arms.
In fact… “Can you see the scars?” I stand up, prepared to point them out to her. They’re hard to see in the lines and colors of the tattoo—as intended.
“I can see them,” the officer says, her voice hushed. “Please sit down, both of you. Thank you, Mr. Madden. We will, uh.” She waves a hand. “We will ask to take a photo of your back for the report, later.”
I make as if to sit down—again—but he doesn’t move.
“Zane.” Dakota gets up and grabs his hands, then his face. “Hey. Come sit down.”
He still doesn’t move.
Fuck. I knew this would happen. In two strides I’m there, helping her to steer him to his chair, then to put his shirt back on.
“Talk to him, Koko,” I tell Dakota. “Ground him.” Gripping his arm, I hold him down when he tries to get back up. “Z-man. Snap out of it. You’re safe.”
“You’re all right,” Dakota whispers to him, and cups his face. “We’re at the police station. Megan is here, and Rafe. You’re okay.”
“I’m okay,” Zane rasps, blinking slowly. “Yeah.”
Megan leans over, takes his hand. “We’re with you, Zane. You know who I am.”
“Meg.” He frowns, looks back at Dakota. “We’re okay.”
The of
ficer produces a muffled sound, and I turn to find her with a hand over her mouth, her eyes glittering. “Let me bring you a glass of water,” she says, and bolts from the room.
Oh boy.
“You all right now, man?” I slap his shoulder. “Where did you go?”
He licks his lips. Maybe that glass of water was a good idea. “Back. Back there.”
Goddammit. “Well, you’re with us, and we won’t let you tumble down that fucking rabbit hole, okay? Remember we’re here. Tell yourself that. Don’t you forget it.”
He nods, but he looks like shit, and I’m damn glad when the officer reappears with the water.
Zane takes it with a shaking hand but manages to drink most of it without spilling it all over himself. “Fuck.” He glances at the officer, eyes widening. “Dammit, sorry.”
Megan snorts.
“It’s okay.” The officer draws a somewhat shaky breath and sits behind the table once more. “Let’s get this done so you can go.” She types a few words. “What was the name of the abuser?”
“Kenneth Shaw.”
“Where did the crime take place? Was it a one-time event? Was any other person involved? Did any other person know about it then?”
“Sometimes there was this other guy. Emerett. Can’t remember more about him.”
She asks him more questions. He seems calmer now as he replies. A little too calm, in fact, as if he’s distancing himself from the interrogation, from the memories. From the fact it was him who went through the abuse he describes.
My teeth are clenched so hard my jaw hurts. Megan strokes my arm, and it’s all I can do not to grab her and get out of here.
This isn’t about me, I remind myself. It’s about Zane. So if he can take it, then I’ll take it and shut the hell up.
“All right.” The officer clicks a few keys on her laptop and sighs. “I have taken down your statement. We will go talk to the man, see if we find out anything more.” She looks straight at Zane. “I won’t lie to you. It doesn’t look good. Regardless of whether I believe you or not, of whether you’re right or not, we need evidence to accuse a man of a crime, and I’ve got nothing that links directly back to him. No proof he abused you, no proof the scars on your back came from him. Twelve years is a long time. Most law enforcement agencies will suspend a case if there are no viable leads, and in this case…”
