Collide Series Box Set

by J. C. Hannigan

  "I plan on it," Iain assured me, looking angrily out the window.

  "What's your plan then?" I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.

  Iain sighed, looking back at me with a sad expression on his face. "To be honest? I have no idea."

  I thought back to what my mom said about how "she could press charges if she wanted to." Momentarily, I wondered if this had been her. I just as quickly dismissed the thought. "You know…my mom knows about us."

  "I know," Iain hedged, frowning slightly.

  "Well…she said that she could press charges if she wanted, but I know she would never do that. Maybe she'd stand up for you." I shrugged. "I could talk to her about it."

  "I don't know…"

  "Well, I don't know what else to do, okay!" I snapped.

  Iain sighed again, running a hand through his hair in thought. "It's okay," he said easily. "We'll figure it out."

  "You could call Thompson," I suggested, gently lifting my tea off the coffee table. My mouth was dryer than cotton balls, and I needed to do something to occupy my shaking hands.

  "No, that's a conflict of interest," Iain said, picking up the folder again. "My lawyer will handle this…if anything comes of it." He looked at the photos for a second time, working his jaw thoughtfully.

  "What is it?" I held the mug of tea tighter in my hands. I took another sip, my hands still trembling ever so slightly.

  "Well, there's nothing here that suggests a sexual relationship between us," Iain said, calmly laying the photos out for me too look at again.

  "So? It shows us together…" I trailed off, confused. He was right though. There was a photo of me outside his house, two of us in his car. The two car photos were blurry, and the one of me walking up to his house didn't show my face. Luckily, our mutual agreement on no public displays of affection had prevented the photographer from getting a photo of us in any incriminating positions.

  "They'd need to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that our relationship was sexual," Iain explained. "These photos don't do that. They don't prove beyond a reasonable doubt. They barely even subtly hint. You can't tell for certain if you're in the car photos, or if that's you…"

  "You can tell that's me," I said, pointing to the one of me walking. "You can see the same leather jacket I always wear." I added, instantly regretting my familiar wardrobe choices.

  He nodded, agreeing. "But, again, this photo proves nothing."

  "How do you know all this?" I demanded, perplexed. My eyes dropped to the photos in Iain's hand. He gave me a foolish half smile.

  "I looked into it," he said, shrugging. "Just in case."

  "Well, our relationship is sexual," I whispered.

  "I know…" Iain said, hesitating for a moment.

  "What is it?" I demanded, an icy cold fear gripping my heart as Iain's sad eyes met mine.

  "If I were to get charged…it'd be with sexual exploitation." Iain looked as if he was having difficulty speaking.

  "It's not though, we're in love. The age difference doesn't matter," I argued, the fear growing so large that it almost choked me.

  "It doesn't matter to us," Iain corrected, "but it would matter in the courtroom. There is no Romeo and Juliet clause to save us. I'm a teacher and you're my student. The outcome isn't good."

  "What are we going to do?" I asked, both dreading and knowing the answer.

  "We need to cool it." His voice broke a little, as if this was the last thing in the world he wanted to do. Fresh tears pooled in my eyes, and I tried to blink them back as I nodded in understanding. He kneeled on the floor, gently taking the tea from my hands and setting it on the coffee table. He took my hands in his and looked at me intently. "Please know, Harlow,” he said, “that I love you more than anything. The only reason why I'm suggesting this is because I don't want to give them anything else. I don't want them hinting toward anything to paint you in a negative light. That will be their intent if they can't scare you away from giving your testimony. Plus…I really don't want to go to jail," he confessed.

  I nodded, the tears escaping down my cheeks. I understood; I truly did. The last thing I wanted to do was to have Iain go to jail. We'd been lucky so far. And incredibly foolish. I couldn't risk having that luck run out.

  "When this is all over, we will be together," Iain promised softly. "Just be patient." He kissed me gently on the lips, tasting the salt of my tears. I kissed him back, heartbreakingly slow. When we pulled away, I noticed that his eyes were wet too.

  I hated to leave him, but I had no choice. He was right.

  I walked home, tears freezing on my cheeks in the arctic weather. It took the same amount of time to walk home that it usually did, but I barely registered the time. It could have been hours or minutes; I was indifferent to the passage of time.

  I took my jacket off in a trance, hanging it up in the front hall closet. The house was silent and dark. I didn't think anyone was up. I was grateful for that. I couldn't face Mom or Larry right at the moment. I knew I was undoubtedly wearing the shock from the photos and the hurt from the departure on my face.

  I quietly treaded down the hallway and went straight to my bedroom. I didn't bother with my nightly routine of washing the makeup off. I fell onto my bed, allowing the exhaustion I'd been feeling for days overcome me. Sleep mercifully came quickly.

  * * *

  A couple days passed without any further incident. Then it was the morning I was to give testimony at the trial. The trial had already been going for a couple of days, and the jury was supposed to reach a decision by the end of the following week. My testimony was right in the middle of it.

  I awoke to Mom pulling the blinds open in my room. She rushed about, trying to get me up and ready for the trial start time at ten. I showered and dressed, worrying about the upcoming day. When I stood up and said my piece…what would happen? Would Iain and I be exposed?

  I'd seriously considered not speaking up in the trial, but only for half a minute. My silence would just help Andrew get away with another rape. This had to stop, and it was bigger than my relationship with Iain.

  In the end, I had to tell myself to do what was right. Speaking up against the Coopers, helping Jenna's case in the trial—that was what was right. Iain and I weren't seeing each other anymore. We were "cooling it," as he put it. I knew it was for the better, but it still stung.

  I washed the soap out of my hair, shaking my head slightly to clear it. I need to get back in the now, in the present. Thompson had warned me that Andrew's lawyers would likely try to pick apart every single thing that I said. I had to be at my most aware.

  Choosing to go a more natural look than my usual liquid eyeliner cat eye, I applied my makeup carefully. I dried my long hair with my blow dryer and brushed it out, leaving it down. I'd chosen simple yet snug black dress jeans and borrowed a dress top off my mom. It was a simple cream cashmere sweater, but far more appropriate than anything I'd had in my closet. I evaluated myself in the mirror critically. Would I pass the judgmental scrutiny of the jury? I chewed on my lip, absently fingering the necklace Iain had given me at Christmas.

  "Come on, Harlow; we're going to be late!" Mom hollered. I sighed, giving up, and left the bathroom. Mom was already in the front hall. She was dressed in her best coat and shoes. She was clenching her purse in her left hand, the keys in her right and looking at me with a look that clearly said Hurry up. I went to put on my boots, feeling sheepish that I hadn't considered court shoes. "No," Mom said quickly, she reached to the top shelf of the front hall closet and grabbed a shoe box. "Wear these."

  I opened the box, looking at the plain black pumps she had purchased for me. I smiled gratefully as I slid into them. She offered me the simple black dress trench jacket that she'd bought me a year ago in hopes that I'd take to it and stop wearing Dad's old leather jacket. I put it on, grateful that she hadn't thrown it out.

  "Let's go," she said, nodding in satisfaction. I followed her out to the car, which was already warming thanks to the remote
starter Larry had gotten her for Christmas.

  We drove in silence to the court house, found a parking spot with some difficulty, and raced up the front steps. I had ten minutes to get back into the judge's chambers. Thompson was pacing the floor, and let out an aggravated sigh of relief when he saw me approaching.

  "Good. You're here. You need to wait in that room until we're ready for you, and you'll have to sit in the audience," Thompson said quickly. He pointed to a room on his left and motioned for Mom to follow him.

  "Good luck!" she whispered, kissing my cheek before she headed off after him. I took a deep breath and pushed open the door. The room was empty. Thompson had told me that we would all have our own waiting areas. I fell onto the leather couch and sighed.

  I hadn't bothered bringing my phone, since I knew I wouldn't be allowed to use it today anyway. My fingers tapped impatiently against the leather as I stared at the clock. Ten minutes passed, and I sighed. I stood up, deciding to explore the room to keep myself occupied. There was a bar fridge and a small table. I went to the bar fridge, opening it and peering inside. There were a couple cans of pop, some water bottles, some juice boxes, and some yogurt. I grabbed a bottle of water, closing the door and twisting off the lid. I was about to take a sip when the door opened.

  "Ms. Jones? They're ready to see you now," the bailiff said. He stood aside so I could exit the room. He led me to the court room, where all the proceedings were taking place.

  I walked into the court room. I'd been expecting a full house, with all the talking that our town had been doing…but the room was surprisingly nearly empty. A few people sat in the rows of benches behind the plaintiff and a handful sat behind the defendant's side. The bailiff led me straight to the stand, where I had to swear on a Bible before sitting down.

  I stared directly at Andrew, my solemn eyes unwavering as he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He was looking fearful now.

  His lawyer, a small rat of a man, stared at me with watery eyes the entire time Thompson asked me to recount the night of the party. I told them about going into the room and seeing Andrew climbing off Jenna. I told them about the altercation we had, about how Jake came in just in time and how Andrew had taken off. I told them about Jake helping me get Jenna home. I didn't leave out a single thing about that night.

  Thompson asked me about the following day, when Andrew chased me down the street, and when he and his friends jumped me and a co-worker after work.

  When Thompson was done asking me questions, he went to sit down at the plaintiff table beside Jenna. She was trembling slightly, tugging the large sweater she was wearing tighter to her body. As far as I'd seen, Andrew had not so much as tossed a glance in her direction. I wasn't even sure if he knew that she was pregnant.

  Andrew's lawyer stood up and walked toward me. He cleared his throat to gain the attention of the jury. I felt dizzy, like I couldn't focus. I tried not to appear that way, though. I raised my head proudly and stared at the approaching lawyer. Thompson had told me his name was O'Neil.

  "Ms. Jones?" he started. "You are aware that you took an oath swearing to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, correct?" I nodded, waiting for him to proceed. "When is your birthday, Ms. Jones?"

  "January fourth, 1988," I replied.

  "Who are your parents?" O'Neil questioned.

  "Lisa Stevenson and Randy Jones," I answered, not pausing.

  "Randy Jones?" O'Neil asked, looking deeply interested. "Wasn't he in that band in the eighties? The 'Screaming Dragons'?"

  "Yes," I answered stiffly.

  "He overdosed when you were three. Cocaine?"

  "How is this relevant?" Thompson demanded.

  "Overruled, that doesn't concern this case O'Neil," the judge said, his voice thick with authority as he frowned down at O'Neil. He nodded, waving his hand in understanding before fixating his eyes on me again.

  "So, tell us about the night of September fifteenth…this party that you all went to. Was there drinking?" O'Neil asked, his voice slick like oil.

  "Yes, but I wasn't," I answered honestly. "I don't drink."

  "You don't drink?" he said, disbelief clear on his expression and his voice as he tossed a bemused look at the jury as if they were in on the joke. He looked down at some papers in his hand. "On the night of October thirty-first, 2008, you were in a car accident with a couple of your friends. Your alcohol content level was 0.09."

  "I don't drink anymore," I amended angrily. "My friend died that night, in case your notes don't say that."

  "So you haven't had any alcohol since the night of this accident," O'Neil continued, ignoring the bit where I mentioned my friend's death. "Yet my client says he saw you with a red cup."

  "I had the cup, yes. Riley gave me it and I dumped it all over the floor when Andrew came at me," I answered.

  "Oh, sure," O'Neil said, smirking.

  The rest of the trial session carried on in the same matter. O'Neil kept asking me ridiculous questions, hinting that I'd been drinking that night, trying to make me look bad. I was prepared for this, though, and I breezed through his questions and attempts at debunking my testimony. I left the stand an hour later feeling extremely exhausted and frustrated. I'd wanted to kick O'Neil in the balls when I walked by, but I didn’t.

  The bailiff escorted me back to the same room I had been waiting in before I gave my testimony. I had to wait there another two hours until court ended for the day.

  Finally, Thompson came to alert me that it was time to leave. "You did great," he told me, smiling as he held the door open so I could walk out. "Your mother is waiting out front."

  "Okay. Am I done?" I asked, gesturing back to the court house. "Because if I have to go in there again, I may not have as much restraint in kicking O'Neil in the nether regions."

  Thompson chuckled. "Unless they come up with more questions, you should be okay. I don't foresee that. You were very descriptive and cooperative."

  I nodded, thankful.

  I found Mom near the doors, looking for me. I accompanied her down the stone steps, ignoring the few reporters that had gathered at the bottom of the steps. They fired question after question at me, but I pushed past them and followed Mom straight to the car. She turned on the engine, driving us home wordlessly.

  She didn't speak until we got inside the house and I flopped down on the couch in exhaustion. She sat down beside me, angling her body so that she was facing me.

  "Harlow, if there's anything you need to tell me…" she said, hesitating as she looked at me with her big, caring green eyes. "You know you can, right?" I looked at her—really looked at her—for the first time in a while. I got the sense that she meant that, that she wanted me to open up to her and that this time she'd listen. "You haven't been yourself the last few days. I can't tell if it's related to this trial…or what. But please know that I'm here."

  I stared back at her, longing to tell her about the man with the folder and about Iain. I opened my mouth, drawing in a breath.

  "It's…fine," I said finally, unable to get the proper words out.

  Mom looked at me skeptically. "I can't help you if you don't talk to me." She sighed, brushing back a strand of her short hair. She'd recently cut it into a bob. It suited her.

  "You can't help me even if I talk to you," I muttered, looking out the living room window at the large snowflakes that had started to fall.

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means that I'm past helping," I clarified, sighing deeply.

  "Is it…Iain?" Mom said his name with complete distain. I stole a glance at her, noticing her wrinkled forehead. It was as if we were discussing dissecting a frog, not the love of my life.

  "There is no more…" I trailed off, searching for the right words. I knew that's not what Iain meant, but it was the easiest way to get her off my case. Maybe it was easiest if I started thinking that way, too. Mom looked surprised.

  "I thought you were still together?" she asked, not bothering to hide her pleasure.
>
  "No, not anymore," I answered, looking back out the window and glaring as I thought about the pictures, and the cooling it. Iain was right; it was necessary. As much as it pained me to be separated from him, it was in both our best interest. She was silent for a moment, still as she watched me. She sighed, reaching her hand out to brush my hair out of my face.

  "It'll be okay, Harlow," she told me. "He wasn't right for you anyway."

  "How do you know that?" I demanded, unable to stop myself. I looked at her with anger. "You don't know what he's like—who he is."

  "All I'm saying, Harlow, is that there is something wrong with a guy that goes after his student. You're eleven years younger than he is!" Mom said defensively. She had recoiled at the harshness of my outburst.

  "It wasn't like that." I shook my head, bewildered. "He didn't go after me. We just…fell for each other. I already told you that."

  "Did you sleep with him?" Mom demanded, outright. I shook my head, unable to answer. I knew it was a lie, but I couldn't help but think about what Iain had said…beyond a reasonable doubt. "Well, that's good then." Mom decided. "We'll put this behind us."

  I stared at her, flabbergasted. Put what behind us, exactly? Years of her back and forth parenting? Trusting, understanding, caring mother one minute, judgmental PTA mom the next? I shook my head, watching her walk off to the kitchen.

  I awoke to a brisk knocking at my door. I startled, my heart racing. My eyes felt crusty and gross. I wiped at them, trying to clear them out.

  "Who…?" My voice was still full of exhaustion. Although sleep had come quickly the night before, I restlessly tossed and turned. My dreams had been full of images I didn't want to see. Iain being forced into a police car, handcuffed. The Coopers getting away with everything. I didn't feel rested at all.

  My door was pushed open, and Mom stood in the hallway with her hands on her hips. "Harlow Jones. It's nearly nine thirty. What are you doing still in bed? You're late for school!" she scolded.

  "Sorry…I…I'll get ready now," I muttered, pushing my blankets off and standing up. She nodded, satisfied with my answer, and headed back toward the kitchen, leaving me to get ready. I swung my legs over the side of my bed, rubbing at my eyes again. They were itchy and swollen.