Love and Sorrow (Small Town Secrets Book 5)

by Jade C. Jamison

  But that was beyond the parameters that Justin and I had established, and I’d do well to remember that. Besides, I really didn’t have time for that bullshit.

  My kids. School. Work. Those were my priorities. Especially helping Sarah.

  By the time I snubbed out my cigarette and went back inside, I had my head on straight. The kids had left out a box of cereal on the table, so I was tidying up when Justin joined me in the kitchen, fully dressed. “Rascal. How long you been here?”

  I hoped my voice sounded light and fun. “Long enough.”

  Justin walked right in front of me and kissed my nose. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Let’s just say Hendrix would be proud.”

  Grinning, he walked to the cabinet to fetch a mug. As he poured himself a cup of coffee, he said, “You’ve heard me sing before.”

  “Not without the radio as backup.”

  “Glad I could amuse you.”

  “I actually enjoyed it.” Picking up my empty cup, I walked to the coffee pot beside him. “You need to head to work pretty soon?”

  “Yeah. What you got planned?”

  “Sarah has her appointment today.”

  “Oh, yeah.” As he walked to the table and sat down, he asked, “You think she’s gonna be all right?”

  “I hope so. God, I hope so.” After pouring creamer in my coffee, I shut the refrigerator and joined him at the table. “So what are you going to do about your girlfriend?”

  “Stop calling her that.”

  “Ooh. Touchy.”

  I loved the way he arched one eyebrow. “That girl and me are gonna have a talk. And I might have to block her number.” I raised my eyebrows, because I personally thought he needed to file a restraining order against her—but Justin already knew what I thought. “Don’t even say it, Rascal.”

  “Not a word.”

  After swallowing several gulps of coffee, he stood and walked to the sink, placing the mug inside. “I better head into work—unless you wanna get jiggy one more time. I could be late for that.”

  “No way. I’m not going to be the reason you get in trouble on the job.”

  “It’d make me too sleepy anyway.”

  “Then get out of here.”

  “See you tonight after class?”

  “Yeah.” Whether it was fucked up or not, I needed this man in my life, no matter how he’d take me.

  After Justin had been gone for a while, I called Amy the Child Protection worker and asked if I could meet with her. I needed some answers…needed to try to control something, anything in my life. Fortunately, she agreed to meet with me before lunch.

  When I got there, she brought me to her office, a small room slightly larger than a closet with a tiny desk that had room for a computer and little else. After we sat down, she asked, “What can I do for you, Randi? Actually, do you mind if I call you Randi?”

  “That’s my name. I just wanted to ask you some questions. I’ve been thinking a lot about all of this, just trying to process it all and I wondered…what will happen now? You said you filed a report—but what’s next?”

  “I’m glad you asked. Unfortunately, I don’t know exactly what will happen. Chances are the police will pick up Mr. Buckley for questioning. At some point, we’ll go to court. There will be charges filed against him, and the DA will handle the prosecution.”

  “I don’t know a whole lot about…people who do this sort of thing. Pedophiles?”

  “People who molest or sexually abuse children, yes.”

  “I have heard they never stop. Is that true?”

  “There are statistics out there that support that theory.”

  “Okay. Then here’s my question. Is this the first time you’ve received reports on Sarah’s teacher? Because I’m pretty sure he’s been at that school for a few years now.”

  “I’m sorry, Randi. Any information I have is privileged. I can’t divulge that.”

  “What? You can’t divulge it? So then you’re protecting him. I thought you were supposed to be protecting children.”

  “No, that’s not it. It’s just that any information we might have is considered confidential, especially at this point. We can’t just go around talking about anything and everything we know here. Wouldn’t you feel violated if I went home and told my friends and family about your daughter?”

  “That’s different. She’s a victim.”

  “And, yes, he’s a perpetrator—or, rather, an alleged perpetrator. If he’s guilty, believe me, everyone who wants to know will soon enough.”

  “Wait a second. You said when a child says she’s been abused, you believe her. So what’s with the whole alleged thing?”

  “Whether I believe her is beside the point. Until he’s found guilty in court, he’s an alleged perpetrator. Once he’s convicted as a sex offender, he’ll be mandated by law to report where he lives and that kind of thing. If he did what Sarah says he did, he won’t be a threat anymore.”

  “I get that—but I also don’t think my request is unreasonable. Sarah can’t be the first child he’s ever…touched.” And I knew that based on my daughter’s story alone, especially when she recounted several special helpers for Mr. Buckley.

  Before she spoke again, Amy got up and shut her door and then retured to her desk. “You need to know something, Randi. A victim has to be willing to accuse the defendant and say, ‘This man did this to me.’ If you don’t have a victim willing to point the finger, the ‘bad guy’ gets away.”

  “That’s messed up.”

  “I’m not saying it’s not. Unfortunately, I have to work within the parameters of the system.” For a few seconds, Amy tapped a pen on her desk. “You never heard this from me, okay?”

  I did happen to hear the intent in her voice and knew she was going to tell me something she’d never acknowledge again. “Okay.”

  “We had one report last year that never amounted to much of anything involving inappropriate touching, nothing like what happened to Sarah, and the girl’s parents didn’t want to do anything legal about it. They were worried about the effects going to court would have on their daughter, and they wound up changing schools. But I and one of my coworkers interviewed him. Apparently, he’d been hugging and touching the girls in ways that pushed the envelope, and not just the girl whose parents reported him.”

  “So he’s gotten worse since then?”

  “Off the record? Yes. He’s progressed. And that’s typical.”

  In the back of my mind, I was blaming this woman and her department. After all, if they’d done something earlier…but I couldn’t allow my mind to go there. Not now. “So, if this goes to trial, would the other girl be brought in to testify?”

  “Doubtful. Her parents would have to be willing to let her do it.”

  “What if Sarah doesn’t want to testify?”

  “Technically, she already has. On video. But judges and juries do view live testimony as more credible than if it’s recorded, partly because the defendant’s attorney is unable to question the victim if he or she isn’t in the courtroom.”

  “So now you’re saying Sarah might have to take the stand?”

  “Didn’t I already make that clear to you yesterday? I thought I indicated it was a distinct possibility.”

  “Maybe.” It was possible that I’d been too emotional to register it. Thinking then of my conversation with Kent, I asked, “Should I get a lawyer?”

  “I don’t think you need to.”

  “But who’s going to watch out for my daughter?”

  “In court? I’ll grant you that the DA represents the people of the state, but inclusive in that is the fact that you and your daughter are part of those people. He will watch out for her best interests, Randi. And I know the DA. I’ve worked with him before. He’s an upstanding, moral man of strong character. I can’t think of anyone else who should handle this case.”

  “But why does Sarah have to testify?” Reminding her again of her own words, I said, “You to
ld us children don’t lie about this kind of thing.”

  “I know that. But most of the world doesn’t. We’re up against perception.”

  By that point, I’d heard all I needed to and thanked the woman for her time. By the time I got to my car, I felt numb. Her final words rattled around in my brain as she’d reminded me that all she’d said to me was off the record.

  It was all bullshit.

  Why had I come here in the first place? What had I hoped to accomplish? As I drove home, an indescribable rage consumed my brain in response to the helpless feelings dwelling inside me. I sped down the road gripping the steering wheel, passing car after car, sucking down a cigarette before arriving in my driveway, barely remembering the journey there.

  It was then that I felt the hot tears streaming down the sides of my nose and I gasped before letting out a loud sob as I held my forehead in my hand and let it all pour out.

  * * *

  Because I had time on my hands and no appetite, I decided to do a little research instead of eating lunch.

  First, I decided to use the internet to find out what I could about sexual offenders.

  I probably should have avoided it.

  Instead, I ran down the rabbit hole, and if I’d thought my mental condition had been bad before, I’d had no idea how much worse it could get. I discovered that an alarming number of criminal charges were filed every year in Colorado for sexual abuse against children—and every year the numbers grew worse. Most victims were female and under the age of twelve.

  That was bad enough.

  But then I discovered that most sentences didn’t lead to these fucking monsters being locked behind bars where they’d never again see the light of day. Instead, they were usually given probation, allowing them to find new victims and ruin more lives.

  I should have stopped reading there—but I felt compelled to dig deeper, finding information that was even more horrifying. Why would there ever need to be a criminal charge of forced sexual penetration with a foreign object? Why were most offenders white middle-class men?

  But the biggest question: Why were only ten percent ever found guilty?

  The more I read, the worse I felt, and the more convinced I became that the man who abused my child would probably experience nothing more than a few days in court…meaning Sarah would be his victim, not just now but forever.

  I couldn’t fucking allow that to happen.

  I knew now what I had to do.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Before leaving the house to pick up Sarah for her appointment, I did a little more internet research. I found the home page for Riverside Elementary, a school with a classy website that seemed misleading. I clicked on the link for the fifth grade and discovered that, although there were four teachers listed, not one was Mr. Buckley. So I searched all the grades, looking for a familiar photo. Although I saw some of Sarah’s older teachers, none was Mr. Buckley.

  Finally, though, I found him—on a Past Faculty page.

  So he was no longer at the school? Jesus, I wanted to punch my hand through the computer screen, looking at his face with his slight smile and thinning blond hair. He appeared to be around my age, and he looked like a perfectly normal person.

  While I was glad he was no longer teaching at Riverside, it didn’t mean he wasn’t victimizing some other girl or girls.

  After staring at his bland face, I then Googled him. If the information that came up was correct, I knew exactly where he lived.

  Still in Winchester.

  When I picked Sarah up for her appointment with Rebecca, I marveled at how much better she seemed. She actually had a smile on her face, signaling to me that she really was healing.

  So I hid from her that I was feeling much, much worse—and I wasn’t quite sure how to handle that.

  * * *

  I was fucking losing it. When I went to class that night, I got to take two midterm exams that I’d completely forgotten about. By this point, though, it didn’t matter. Either I’d pass or I wouldn’t. In the grand scheme of things, what the fuck did it matter? I’d been so focused on school last year, I’d missed what had happened to my daughter.

  Maybe my priorities had been fucked up.

  When I walked out of the building toward the parking lot, my head was throbbing, my right hand cramping. The skies above felt different. There were no stars and the clouds were visible in the evening sky, indicating snow in the air…just in time for Halloween. Various students walked past me, laughing and chattering, and I tugged my jacket more tightly around my torso, realizing it was probably time to dig out my coat.

  I was halfway to the parking lot when I heard Justin’s voice. “Randi!”

  Turning my head, I stopped walking until he caught up. “Hey.”

  “I kept hollering at you. You ignorin’ me now?”

  Normally, I’d enjoy this banter…but not today. “No. Just distracted.”

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “What do you think?”

  He let out a long breath as we continued walking. “Can I do anything?”

  “What can you do?” After several steps, I spat out, “Why do you even bother asking? You won’t do the one thing I asked you to.”

  Without looking, I could sense he stopped walking but I kept my steady pace toward the van. Soon, he caught up to me. “We already talked about this. I can’t do what you want me to.” I continued walking without hesitation, giving him a shrug as an answer—but I didn’t look at him. “Do you want me to go to jail?”

  “No. Forget I said anything, okay?”

  “What the hell are you thinking, Randi? I know—”

  As if a volcano had been brewing in my chest, it erupted, spewing acid toward the man I called my best friend. Stopping in my tracks, I pointed my finger like a dagger, jabbing toward his chest. “You don’t know shit, Justin. Your daughter wasn’t fucking molested by some desperate predator. Your life isn’t fucking falling apart. You don’t know shit.”

  He put a hand on my shoulder. When he spoke, his voice was uncharacteristically calm and quiet. “Whoa, filly. You’re right—I don’t know what you’re going through. I don’t have kids. I don’t understand how you feel. But I do know one thing. If you do anything like what you’re thinking about—and I’m not stupid, sweetheart; I know what you’re thinking—you’ll go to jail yourself. And what the fuck good would that do your kids? What would that do to you and them for the rest of your lives? You think they’d be better off with a mom behind bars? Letting your kids get separated and living with their dads just because you thought you knew better than everybody else. I’m sure your kids would just love seeing you get all hard and twisted—but you’d be happy ‘cause you shot the bad guy. Great thinking, Randi, really fucking smart. You’ll get to spend the rest of your life in the slammer, growing old and wrinkled, licking pussy and eating cold mashed potatoes with lumpy gravy every night, getting stabbed in fights, sucking a guard’s slimy cock just to get your cigarettes—”

  Violently, I pulled my shoulder away, forcing his hand to drop. “Fuck you.” Then I marched the last few steps to the van. Without turning my head, I raised my voice. “And fuck your pep talk, too.”

  In seconds, he was by my side again. “Come on, Rascal. You’re not thinking straight right now.”

  “On the contrary. I am thinking. Too much.” I tossed my backpack in the van and lit a cigarette, just as I noticed a couple of tiny snowflakes falling. “Here’s a fun fact. Only half of these guys actually get convicted of a crime, and out of those, less than twenty percent of them actually end up in prison. Now you tell me—where’s the justice? I’m no gambler, but those odds seem pretty shitty to me. Your chances at Russian roulette are better.” I pointed at Justin with my cigarette. “Don’t you think Sarah’s been fucked with enough?”

  “Where’d you get that info?”

  “I looked it up. Those statistics are for right here in Colorado in the good old U S of A. Great fucking country. Let�
�s let all the bad guys go free.” I took a long drag on my cigarette. “I’m tired of doing what I’m supposed to. If bad guys get away with shit, then I’ll take matters into my own hands.”

  “Randi, you can’t—”

  “No, you can’t tell me what to do, Justin. Even my parents lost that privilege a long time ago.” Gritting my teeth, I tossed my half-smoked cigarette on the ground and opened the van door. Unable to keep the sarcasm from my voice, I said, “Thanks for listening.”

  I couldn’t even look at him as I backed out of the parking space. Once I was moving forward, I focused on the snowflakes, now starting to fall more steadily on my windshield. My heart now felt as cold as the air outside, but my blood was boiling hot.

  If the state couldn’t—wouldn’t—mete out justice, then I would.

  I only had to figure out what that justice would look like.

  * * *

  The next morning, I sipped a cup of coffee while staring out the kitchen window. We now officially had our first snow of the season, but it hadn’t really done much. In fact, it had hardly even dusted the bare branches of the trees—yet, somehow, it seemed apropos.

  Shit. I’d been staring too long. Turning around, I quickly flipped the bacon popping in the skillet before scrambling some eggs. By the time the kids came to the kitchen, I was filling up two plates of greasy breakfast food. Did I think that made me a good mom?

  The first words out of Devon’s mouth snapped me out of it. “Mom, Halloween’s tomorrow night. When are we getting costumes?”

  Fuck. “How about tomorrow after I get out of class?”

  “Mmm-kay.” That was easier than I’d expected. Of course, he was enjoying the bacon.

  “What about you, Sarah? Do you want a costume this year?”

  “I don’t know. What for?”

  I wasn’t about to argue with her. If she didn’t want a costume, I wasn’t going to force the issue—especially since I had to work tomorrow night. “Well, if you change your mind, let me know.”

  Devon’s eyes grew wide and the panic was evident in his voice. “Wait! I’m going to dad’s house tonight!”