by N L Hinkens
“I don’t want the kids in school to know what happened,” Violet choked out. “If we tell Dad everyone will hear about it. He’ll want to press charges, go to the media even. He’ll never let me out of the house again. My life will be over.”
In the end, Heather had agreed to say nothing, fearing her father might do something drastic if the police managed to identify Tank. She had settled for making Violet take multiple pregnancy tests over the ensuing weeks—all of which came back negative. Her parents noticed a change in Violet’s ordinarily bubbly demeanor, but Heather convinced them it was merely hormones.
Two months later, Heather was pulling into a gas station after a day out shopping with her sister in Davenport when Violet gripped her by the arm. “Wait!” she hissed in an urgent whisper.
“Ouch! What are you doing?” Heather said, throwing a befuddled glance at Violet who had slithered down several inches in the passenger seat.
“It’s him,” she whispered. “Tank—the guy who raped me!”
Every nerve in Heather’s body began to pulse in unison. “Where?” she demanded.
“Filling up that old green truck at pump number seven, the guy with his back to us. I saw his face when we were pull—”
Before Violet could finish, Heather was out of the car. “Hey!” she yelled, to the six-foot-two, broad-shouldered male in a Hawkeyes ball cap who was unscrewing the gas cap on his truck.
His eyes narrowed momentarily and then flicked to the car where Violet was staring at him through the windscreen. His body tensed. In a flash, he jumped back in his truck and took off, gas cap dangling.
Heather inhaled a quick breath to calm her racing heart before dashing back to her car. She climbed in and gripped the steering wheel tightly, her knuckles whitening under the pressure. “We’ll never catch him now. The light just changed. Did you get a picture?”
Violet gave a defeated shake of her head. “No. I … didn’t think to take one.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I froze.”
“It’s all right,” Heather assured her. “I know what he looks like now.” She got back out of her car to gas up, already assembling a game plan in her head. She would make it her business to find Tank, no matter how long it took, and when she did, she would make him pay for what he’d done to Violet.
In the following weeks, she’d trawled private investigator websites, researching how to track down people and learning ways to stalk them. Looking back, it had been her first real case—hunting for Violet’s attacker. The case that had launched her career.
Unbeknownst to her parents, she spent all her spare time staked out close to the gas station. She figured Tank must live or work close by, and she was banking on him returning at some point. No one at school had any idea what she was up to. Lindsay was the one person she trusted with her deepest secrets, but she hesitated even to tell her, until the day Lindsay spilled her guts about a secret of her own. “I need to tell you something, but first you have to swear you won’t tell a soul.”
Heather reached for the Jelly Belly bag on the floor next to her. “Okay.”
Lindsay giggled nervously. “Don’t freak out, but I’ve been seeing my boss.”
“Are you serious?” Heather exclaimed, picturing the car wash where Lindsay worked on the weekends. “That guy with the ponytail?”
“I’m not talking about my immediate boss,” Lindsay said coyly, “I mean the owner.”
Heather’s jaw dropped. “How old is he?”
Lindsay gave a nonchalant shrug. “Thirty-eight. I don’t care about his age so don’t give me any grief. We’re in love and that’s all that matters. He’s going to leave his wife once I graduate. Until then, he doesn’t want me telling anyone about us.”
“But he’s more than twice your age,” Heather protested.
“So? Boys our age are idiots. Bill knows where he’s going in life. He’s traveled all over the world, he went to—”
“But he’s married!” Heather cut in. “Does he have kids?”
“Twins, but they’re older—sophomores in college.”
“You’re still breaking up a family,” Heather pointed out. “Remember how you felt when your dad left?”
“Bill and his wife grew apart before he met me. I’m not breaking anything up that wasn’t already broken,” Lindsay huffed.
“That’s what he’s telling you,” Heather said. “You’re younger than his kids, for crying out loud. I bet his wife might have something to say about it. And what about his business? If he divorces her, he might have to sell it. You could end up destroying their livelihood.”
“He’s going to buy her out.” Lindsay grinned at Heather and shook her playfully. “Don’t be such a worrywart. Trust me, Bill’s got everything worked out. We’re not doing anything illegal. I’m eighteen in a few weeks, remember? Speaking of which, what are you doing for your eighteenth? A party?”
Heather shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Lindsay arched a brow at her. “You sound like you don’t even care.”
“I don’t anymore.” Heather’s voice cracked. “Look, there’s something I need to tell you too, but you can’t tell anyone, ever.”
Lindsay widened her eyes. “Are you seeing someone as well? Your dad’s going to kill you when he finds—”
“No! That’s not it!” Heather snapped. She dropped her head into her hands. “I wish that’s all it was. It’s so much worse.”
Lindsay draped an arm around her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I was caught up in my own excitement. I know something’s been bothering you lately. You’ve been so quiet. Is it because of the rumors at school? Don’t worry, if Reagan’s behind it, it will all come out in the end. You know I’ll support you. We’ve always been there for each other.”
“It’s not that.” Heather pulled anxiously at her lip. “Remember the party Violet went to—the one my parents didn’t know about?”
“Oh no! Don’t tell me they found out!”
“No. But something happened at the party.”
Lindsay’s jaw dropped. “Did Violet get busted drinking?”
“She was drinking,” Heather admitted. “Some kids brought vodka in their water bottles. She knew better, but she didn’t want to be the only one left out, so she had a few shots. Then some older kids showed up later that evening. Violet was tipsy by then and she was flirting with one of them. A big kid—he called himself Tank.”
Lindsay grimaced. “That’s not good if it gets back to your dad.”
“It gets worse. He followed her into a bathroom and … and he raped her.”
Lindsay clapped a hand over her mouth and stared at Heather, eyes bulging in horror. When she spoke, her voice was a subdued whisper. “Did you report it?”
Heather shook her head. “I wanted to, but Violet begged me not to. She doesn’t even know the kid’s real name. She’s mortified at the thought of everyone at school finding out. And of course, Dad would never let either of us out of the house again if he found out.”
“But it’s a crime,” Lindsay cried. “You can’t let him get away with it.”
Heather pinned a penetrating look on her. “I’m not going to let him get away with it. I know what he looks like now, and what kind of truck he drives. Violet spotted him at a gas station a couple of weeks back and pointed him out to me. He’s looks like a football player. He’s not from our high school. I’m guessing he’s at least nineteen or twenty. I’ve been staking out the gas station ever since. If he comes back, I’m going to follow him and find out where he lives.”
Lindsay fussed nervously with her ponytail. “That sounds dangerous. What if he tries to run you off the road or something?”
“He won’t. I’ll be discreet about it.”
“So what’s the point of following him to his house then?”
Heather pulled her brows together in concentration. “I’m not sure yet. I need to confront him about what he did—it all depends how he reacts, I suppose.”
“You can’t confront him. It�
�s not like he’s going to beg for forgiveness. He might hurt you too.”
Heather locked eyes with Lindsay. “I put one of my dad’s shotguns in my car, just in case I need to scare him off. Don’t worry, I won’t use it.”
Lindsay jumped up and began pacing back and forth. “I don’t like the sound of this. It could go horribly wrong. You should either go to the police and report him or forget all about him.”
“I can’t break Violet’s trust!” Heather blurted out. “My hands are tied. I just need to make him realize what he’s done. If he’s remorseful, maybe I can move on.”
“What do you mean you can move on? You weren’t the one he raped.”
“It was my fault it happened,” Heather said. “I shouldn’t have lied to our parents or taken Violet to the stupid party in the first place. I owe it to her to make him acknowledge what he’s done.”
Lindsay set her lips in a grim line. “Promise me you won’t confront him alone. You can text me and I’ll go with you.”
Heather shook her head. “I have to go after him the minute I spot him—I might have only one shot.”
As it turned out, it was several months later before Heather’s chance came. She was sitting in her car scrolling through her phone one Saturday evening shortly before 10:00 p.m. when the green truck pulled into the gas station.
Her heart thumped like galloping hooves against her ribs as she slowly slid up in her seat. She watched Tank climb out of his truck and fish a credit card from his back pocket. It was him all right. And he was alone. Her persistence had been rewarded. She peered over her shoulder at the blanket on the back seat covering her dad’s shotgun. She had told Lindsay she was only bringing it along as a deterrent, but she’d use it if she had to. Her father had taken her and Violet hunting from a young age, and she wasn’t afraid to pull the trigger.
Once the green truck pulled out onto the road, Heather turned her key in the ignition and followed at a safe distance. Tank had the driver’s window rolled down and was resting his elbow casually on the frame. Heavy metal music pounded into the night as they left town and headed into corn country. The truck swerved once or twice before correcting course, leading Heather to suspect he’d been drinking. She slowed down, increasing the distance between them, and let the truck disappear from sight. They were the only two vehicles on the road and she didn’t want to make it obvious to Tank that he had someone on his tail. She drove at a steady speed for the next couple of miles, occasionally spotting the truck’s taillights as it rounded a bend or shot through a junction. She wasn’t familiar with the area, but she estimated they were ten or fifteen miles out of town.
Turning a corner, she abruptly slammed on the brakes. Tank’s truck was parked at an angle across the road, blocking her route. She put her car in park and sat frozen in her seat, scarcely breathing, her eyes scouring the darkness for any sign of movement. Moments later, the truck door swung open. Tank staggered out and began walking unsteadily toward her. Instinctively, she reached behind her for the shotgun.
He stumbled up to her car and slammed both palms on the driver’s window startling her out of her skin. “Why’re you following me?” he yelled, slurring his words as he beat his fist on the roof for emphasis. Heather sat as still as possible, the gun resting across her knees. He was drunk, which meant his reactions would be unpredictable. There was no sense in rolling down her window and trying to engage him in conversation.
All of a sudden, he stepped back and swung a vicious kick at her door. “Open the door! Now!”
Heather scooted toward the center console, and then slowly raised the shotgun and pressed the muzzle to the window.
Tank lowered his face to the glass, a confused expression flitting across his features before his eyes widened. For a moment he hesitated, as if debating with himself, before turning and stumbling back to his truck. He climbed in, revved the engine, and tore off down the road, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake. Heather let out a long sigh of relief as she returned the gun to the rear seat. Mustering her resolve, she floored the gas pedal, and gave chase. Her pulse pounded in her temples as she careened around corners at a speed she’d never driven at before. Adrenalin flooded her system. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do when she caught up with Tank again, but she knew one thing—she wasn’t going to let him disappear. She accelerated, trying desperately to keep the truck’s taillights in view. She couldn’t allow him to get far enough ahead to pull off in some corn field and turn off his lights, while she roared obliviously past him. As she approached another bend in the road, the screech of tires reached her ears, followed by an eerie crunching sound. She slammed on the brakes as she wheeled around the corner, coming to a sudden halt at the sight of the green truck folded around a tree. Shaking, she pulled over to the side of the road.
For several minutes she stayed put in her vehicle, fearing the truck door would burst open and Tank would tumble out, more enraged than ever. When he failed to emerge, she gingerly opened her door and climbed out. She stood in the darkness next to her car agonizing over what to do before finally reaching into the back seat and grabbing the shotgun. She couldn’t take anything for granted. He might be waiting for her—ready to pounce the minute she let down her guard.
Cautiously, she approached the truck, taking aim at the driver’s window. Her heart skipped a beat when she glimpsed Tank slumped over the steering wheel, blood dripping down the side of his head. Her chest rose and fell as her breath came in shallow spurts. She had set out tonight to hold him accountable for what he had done. It seemed fate had intervened on her behalf and dealt the fatal blow.
She pulled a shaky breath together as she lowered the shotgun and stared into the cab. A crushed beer can lay amid the debris on the passenger seat. A part of her wanted to open the door and root around for his ID—find out the real name of the scumbag who’d so callously stolen Violet’s innocence. A shiver crossed her shoulders. She couldn’t do it. The thought of touching him, maybe even getting his blood on her hands was utterly repulsive. She backed away a few steps and then froze. Had he just twitched? Or had she imagined it? For a long moment, she remained rooted to the spot watching in morbid fascination, willing him to be dead. A beat later, he lifted his head like a wobbly newborn and looked around, his eyes coming to rest on her. Slowly, he slid a bloodied palm up the inside of the glass. It looked like he was mouthing: Help!
A finger of dread worked its way over Heather’s shoulders. He wasn’t dead, after all. He was clinging to life and asking for mercy—mercy he hadn’t shown Violet. Heather hesitated, the overriding desire for revenge clawing at her insides, insisting on having its way. She clenched a fist at her side, sealing in her decision before walking resolutely back to her car. She rammed it into gear and turned around in the road, before heading back the way she had come.
She wasn’t going to save the man who had raped her sister. There would be no 911 call.
12
Back at her house that night, Heather tossed and turned in her bed, drenched with sweat. Each time she began to drift off, she would jerk awake at the haunting image of Tank’s bloodshot eyes latching onto hers, fingers pressed to the glass of the driver’s window in a desperate plea for help. Curled up in a ball beneath her duvet, she listened to the sound of Violet breathing, wondering if Tank had already taken his last breath, trapped in his truck. In the eyes of the law, she was a murderer. Granted, she hadn’t used the shotgun. But she’d fled the scene of an accident. She had knowingly and willingly left another human being to die.
She desperately needed to talk to Lindsay—Lindsay would be there for her no matter what, just like Heather had been there for Lindsay when her relationship with her boss had come to an abrupt end a few weeks prior. Bill’s wife had found out about the affair and promptly filed for divorce, but instead of the proposal Lindsay had been eagerly anticipating, Bill had upped and disappeared without a measly goodbye, much less a forwarding address.
At six-thirty the following morning, Hea
ther finally broke down and texted Lindsay.
I found Tank.
What?!!! Did you get his address?
I need to talk to you. Can I come over?
OK. Text me when you get here.
By the time Heather got to Lindsay’s house, she was shaking uncontrollably, partly from lack of sleep, partly from delayed shock. Somehow in the light of day, the horror of what she had done hit harder than under the cover of darkness when she’d almost been able to convince herself it was all a bad dream.
“You look awful,” Lindsay blurted out the moment she opened the door to her. She hustled Heather inside and upstairs to her room, stifling a yawn. “My mom’s still asleep. She won’t bother us, but I’ll lock the door to be safe.” She turned on some music before sinking into her enormous furry beanbag chair next to Heather. “So, what happened? Did you find out where he lived?”
Heather inhaled a steadying breath and shook her head. “He realized someone was following him. We were about fifteen miles or so west of town. When I came around a corner, he had blocked the road with his truck.”
Lindsay let out a strangled gasp. “I warned you not to go after him on your own. What happened then?”
“He started yelling at me. He was punching my car the whole time and kicking it. He’d been drinking.”
“He didn’t hurt you, did he?” Lindsay asked, her eyes alight with concern.
“No. I held the shotgun up to the window and scared him off. I think he realized then who I was—he saw me that day at the gas station with Violet.”
“So you lost him?”
“I let him get just far enough ahead of me so that I could still see his taillights in the distance. He was driving erratically, way too fast. And then …”
