Logan doesn’t say anything, he just waits for me to get the hell out of his car.
My heart is shrapnel in my chest.
God, it hurts so much.
Mutely, I reach down for the bag at my feet with my left hand, and I jump when Logan’s hand suddenly clamps down over my arm.
“What is that?”
I stare at him, frozen by his touch and the hostility in his voice.
“Bree, what is that?”
I blink and then glance down at the arm he’s holding, pinned in midair. On the sleeve of my sweatshirt is a small blossom of bright red blood, seeping through the thick gray fabric. Delayed, I feel the muted sting of pain.
He doesn’t wait for me to respond; he just impatiently shifts his hand down to my wrist, imprisoning it while his other shoves my sleeve roughly up my arm. I wince as the fabric scrapes over the row of uneven slashes climbing my forearm, still fresh and vivid red.
Logan inhales sharply.
I snatch my arm from his grasp, feeling exposed, and tug my sleeve back down, shrinking into my seat.
“What the hell did you do?” he breathes.
I’m shaking when I look back at him, at the horror plain on his face. Tears collect in my eyes. “You told me it helped. That it was easier.”
His face contorts, just for a second, and he looks more than slightly sick. He wipes a hand down his face with a sharp curse into his palm. “When?” he asks thickly. “When did you do it?”
“Last night.”
He looks like he wants to ask something else but he’s just shaking his head, staring at me, his jaw set and revulsion plain in his eyes.
I can take his anger but I can’t take his disgust.
“I told you I was ruined.”
And just like that he’s furious again. “Stop saying that! You want to know what you heard that night? When you heard my voice? ‘It’s okay,’” he quotes himself, scathingly. His voice turns bitter. “That’s what I said to my mom the night I watched her dying in my arms. When I couldn’t do anything to save her. That’s what you heard!”
Logan glares at me, his face gnarled with pain, his eyes wet. “We’re both fucking ruined.”
I can feel my own tears trickling down my cheeks and suddenly I’m angry and indignant and hurting for him as much as I am for myself. It’s too much. I can’t feel all of this and not explode.
“I wanted it to feel better!” I yell at him. “I wanted what you had!”
“I had nothing!”
“Neither do I!”
Logan’s jaw muscle bunches under his cheek. “You had me.”
“I lost you.”
But he just scowls. “You didn’t lose me, you threw me away.”
We sit in silence for a minute before Logan reaches for my arm again and I yank it away. He just looks at me, waiting, and then reaches again. This time I let him. I let him gently push up my sleeve again, let him turn my arm in his grasp, inspecting the still angry-looking slits across my pale, freckled skin, the thick, raw welt on my wrist. When he looks up, reaching across me for the glove box, he swallows and his face is ashen.
Logan withdraws the small first aid kit there, popping it open with one hand, his other still cradling my mangled arm. Carefully he covers each wound with adhesive bandages, smoothing them tenderly into place, all without looking at me.
While he tends to my injuries, his head bent over my arm, I watch him. Chunks of his dark hair have fallen over his forehead, partially covering his eyes, but I can see enough of his face; his black lashes swept low over his eyes, his cheek broken open from the fight, his lips. The inside of the car smells familiar and it smells like him and he’s touching me so softly, his fingers light on my skin.
I shiver, and he mistakes it for cold. “What do you have against wearing a coat?”
“Why were you still there? At school.”
Logan snaps the lid closed on the first aid kit, slipping it back into the glove compartment and shutting the door. “Erik couldn’t find you.”
He doesn’t add anything more right away, so I wait.
“He told me when he left. He cares about you. He was worried.”
Which means he’d waited. Logan had waited for me.
I want to catch his eyes, want to search them for hours if he’d let me, but Logan’s hands are on the wheel again and he’s staring, rigid, out the windshield.
“It makes me so fucking sick you did that to yourself.”
I flinch at his low voice. Tears overflow and I open my mouth to say something, I don’t know what, there isn’t anything to say, it’s done, when Logan’s unbearably dark eyes flick to the rearview mirror. My mother and father had just pulled in behind us, blocking Logan in.
“Shit.”
Logan looks sharply over at me. “What?”
But I don’t answer. Hastily I scrape the tears from my face with the cuffs of my sweater and snatch my bag from the floor, pushing out onto the driveway. I smile and lift my bag to my shoulder, pressing my other, bloodied arm against my waist.
And turn, shocked, when I hear Logan’s door slam shut as well.
He’s standing in the driveway not looking at me and then my parents are there and there’s nothing I can do but pretend everything is okay.
“Mom, Dad,” I say, forcing my voice to sound even and controlled, “this is Logan.”
“Oh!” my mom beams, hustling over to him and pulling him into a hug, unfazed by his shocking appearance. I wonder how much Trish knew, how much she’d guessed that I’d never said, how much she’d told them as Mom gushes, “It’s so good to finally meet you.”
Logan hugs her back warmly and then shakes my dad’s hand. “You, too.”
“Trish tells us you’ve been good to our daughter,” my dad says, and Logan’s eyes flick to mine.
“You guys are back soon,” I jump in, overdoing it a little as my voice is unsuitably loud. “What’s going on?”
Mom’s smile falters a little, but it’s my father who speaks. “Why don’t we go inside, Sweetheart.”
I glance between them, my skin going cold. “What?”
My mom’s gaze lands on Logan briefly before meeting mine. “It’s okay, Sweetie. We just want to talk to you about something.”
My chest is tight. I want to scream at them to tell me now, I don’t want to go inside, I don’t want to pretend everything is fine when I’m all shattered pieces and bloody scars.
I don’t even notice him moving, but all of the sudden Logan is there, slipping his hand into mine, threading our fingers together tightly, and I can breathe again. I squeeze his hand, reaching across my body to cover it with my other, and I can feel Logan watching me carefully.
“Okay,” I say.
Though my parents both hesitate, glancing awkwardly at Logan, they don’t object when he leads me into Trish’s house, into the living room, sitting next to me on the couch, never letting go of my hand. Trish gives me an all too bright smile from the kitchen, but doesn’t join us. I cling to Logan, confused and aching but willing, for now, to take the comfort he’s offering without question. I know all too soon he’ll be gone again.
My mom sits opposite us on the sofa, tugging at the bottom of her white sweater, adjusting it over her round hips. Next to her, my dad’s thin face looks like he’s trying not to throw up.
“What? What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Sweetie . . .” my Mom starts, and the whole time she pauses I can’t find any air in the room, my lungs are a balloon all shriveled and stuck to itself. “We wanted to talk to you about going back to talk to Detective Mollard today.”
I stiffen and Logan looks at me sharply, his eyes questioning.
The blood drains from my face. I feel lightheaded.
“Now that you’re talking . . .” my Mom continues, “there’s just so much you weren’t able to describe to them -” I flinch visibly and Mom’s voice softens, sympathetic. “There’s so much more you could tell them now, to help with the investigati
on.”
“No.”
“Bree -”
“The statue of limitations for these kinds of cases is eight years, Bree,” my Dad tells me. “They could still catch the guy who did it.”
“Logan knows I was raped, Dad. You can say the word.”
“Well, I – I didn’t know . . .” he stammers, and I immediately feel bad for him, for my harsh words. He’s trying to make it easier on me, this impossible thing no father would ever want to ask of their daughter, and I’m lashing out at him. Just like before.
Mom sighs. “Bree, Honey, this could really help. We’ve already talked to Detective Mollard and he -”
“You already talked to him?”
My lungs are jerking in my chest, it’s all I can do not to press my palms over them to try to keep them still, to keep my parents from noticing that their daughter is falling apart in front of them. I feel Logan reach his free arm around my shoulders, pulling me tight against his chest, and he’s warm and he’s solid and he’s Logan and now I’m crying, cool tears dripping silently down my face.
My mom pushes up from her seat, crossing the room and hunkering down on her knees in front of me. She lays a hand on my leg and looks up at me, her brown eyes wet with tears.
“We’re not going to force you to do this, Bree. God knows you’ve been through enough. But this – doing this – it might save some other girl from having to suffer like you had to. If what you tell the police, if it helps . . .”
She trails off, crying, and I stare at her, shaking and terrified. I don’t want to go through it again, rake over my memories with a fine-toothed comb, expose every horrifying detail, inspect every filthy moment, bit by bit. I don’t know if I could do it without losing myself, without succumbing to that screaming in my head and never, ever finding my way back out.
How the hell am I going to live through that again?
“I’m scared,” I whisper, and my mom rubs my leg.
“I know, Honey. I am too.”
Logan’s hand squeezes over mine. “I’ll go with you.”
I balk at the suggestion but my dad is already speaking. “The station’s over an hour’s drive. We can take her.”
Slowly, Logan looks up from his seat beside me, meeting my father’s gaze.
“With all due respect, Sir, if Bree wants me there, I’m going.”
My skin is clammy with panic, revolted by the thought of saying those things out loud, in front of Logan.
But he just turns to face me, gently cupping my chin and tilting my face up to his. “Do you want me to come with you?”
I blink and send another tear trailing down to bead in the center of his palm. He’s waiting, studying me, but it isn’t even really a question. I could never do it without him.
“Yes.”
My father drives us to the police station, back in my home town. I sit directly behind him with Logan’s coat over my t-shirt, the armpits already damp with cold sweat. I’d quickly changed out of my blood-stained sweatshirt back at the house, and Logan had helped me into the jacket when I’d brought it out from my room. He’d held it out for me to thread my arms through, his back to my family, and as he had, his eyes had zeroed in on the pattern of small circular bruises that were already forming on my arm from Dylan’s fingers.
In less than a second, Logan was tense and furious.
“I’m okay,” I’d said blandly, so only he could hear.
His eyes had just flashed up to mine, glinting with mute rage. He’d stared at me like that for a moment, and then he’d blinked smoothly and reached around to scoop my braid from the collar. I’d shivered at his touch.
In silence that might’ve felt awkward if only I wasn’t so terrified, we’d walked out of the house in a line, pausing only when Trish had run up to squeeze me in a quick hug.
“I love you,” she’d whispered in my ear. “You’ll do fine.”
I’d just pulled back and wrapped Logan’s coat tighter around me, giving her a lax smile.
Logan had held the truck door open for me, waiting and watching as I’d missed twice with the buckle before finally hearing the snap of it locking into place. My dad had climbed behind the wheel of my mother’s SUV and adjusted the rearview mirror while Mom had hauled herself up into the seat next to him, sending me a tremulous smile over her shoulder.
“I’m so proud of you,” she’d told me with a bittersweet smile.
I’d nodded because anything more would’ve broken the fragile glass shell around me. I was shaking and I’d wrung my hands together as Logan had rounded the vehicle, climbing in on the other side and considering me carefully as he’d settled into the seat.
My heart squeezed at his nearness.
The hour drive is a torturous warp of time, my stomach writhing in painful knots as I stare mutely out the window. Trees and signs and cars all bleed together in a dizzying blur, and I want to reach my hand out the window and grab onto something, anything, just cling to whatever my fingers can grasp, wrap myself around it and never, ever let go. As the landmarks grow more and more familiar, places I’d known since I was a little girl, the dread in my stomach twists, tangling in on itself, a snake swallowing its tail.
I feel a warm hand slip between mine and I clutch at it automatically, waves of pain and fear and relief washing over me in turns.
When my dad pulls in behind the small brick police station I’m concentrating almost entirely on not vomiting all over the spotless beige upholstery of my mother’s car.
Dad slides it into park and everyone waits for just a second, not moving, until my mom takes a deep breath. “You ready, Honey?”
They’re waiting for me. I glance at the bland brown brick of the station and nod, not trusting my voice.
I’m reaching for the door handle with a trembling hand when my dad says, gently, “Bree.” He catches my gaze in the rearview mirror, his light gold-brown eyes worried and aged and heartbroken. “Are you sure?”
No. But I take a breath and nod again, forcing a smile that shudders and dies on my lips. My dad frowns.
Before they can ask me anything else I yank the handle and slip from my seat, landing on the pavement on legs that are numb. Logan is there in an instant, faster than I would’ve thought possible, standing as close as he can without touching me. I barely move my hand to reach for him and he takes it without hesitation, taking a little of my weight too as I lean on him.
My lungs aren’t cooperating but I ignore them, meeting my dad’s eyes and nodding before following him into the building.
Detective Mollard must’ve been waiting for us, because he greets us in the small, unceremonious lobby. There’s a cluttered receptionist’s desk with a bespectacled middle-aged woman behind it, a few chairs against the wall next to a stand with a coffee pot and two overturned white ceramic mugs, and a long, thin table pushed against the wall covered in fliers and pamphlets. Above it is a plaque with the photographs and names of the policemen and –women of the station. There are seven.
The sight of the detective is blunt and uncomfortable, a solid reminder of a time in my life I don’t ever want to remember. Tall and thick, the officer is imposing in his crisp navy uniform, thick black belt at his hips heavy with pockets and equipment and, of course, his gun. He’d never coddled me during the admittedly stilted investigation two years ago, interacting with me in a way that I would describe only as professional, and I can’t help but appreciate that he treated me like a human being, and not like a casualty.
“Ms. McCaffrey,” he says evenly, squarely meeting my eyes. “Thank you for doing this, I know it can’t be easy for you.” Then he nods at my parents. “Mr. and Mrs. McCaffrey.”
There’s an awkward pause and then my mom steps forward, gesturing at my side. “This is Logan, a friend of Bree’s.”
The detective shakes his hand, absorbing Logan’s battered face without comment. “Logan.”
Logan just nods, remaining silently at my side.
And then we’re all just standing
there, a small huddle of people, and the coffee pot makes a low hissing noise and I jump. I can feel all of their eyes and attention on me, a thick blanket of expectation smothering me.
With a judicious evaluation of the four of us, Detective Mollard settles his knowing gaze on me. “I’ll be in my office, right down the hall here, whenever you’re ready. Take your time.”
We all watch him leave, his black boots thumping on the discolored linoleum, and no one else seems to notice that all the oxygen has just left the room with him, and I’m going to pass out if I can’t get any air into my lungs soon.
That hallway doesn’t lead to an office, it leads to the edge of an eighty-foot drop straight down to a thick slab of cement, and I have to jump.
“Bree, Honey?” My mother. “Do you want us to come back with you?”
I shake my head adamantly, still staring after him, and while my parents’ expressions don’t change at all, I think I can see hurt in my mom’s and relief in my dad’s.
I can’t even look at Logan, I’m just staring down the hall where the detective disappeared, and now he’s in his office waiting for me to follow him, waiting for me to willfully carve out my own skin, to disembowel myself, let all that foul, stinking ugliness splash out onto the desk in front of him. He’d nod and he’d scribble on a ruled writing pad, respectfully silent as my blood would soak into the fibers of that paper, smearing the black ink.
I need air.
“I think – I’m -” I break off, the words smashing in my throat. Then I almost scream the rest, talking too fast and too loud at their alarmed faces. “I need to use the bathroom first!”
And I turn and lunge for the door, pushing it open and spewing out into the parking lot. I stumble to the side of the building where there’s a wooden, weather-worn picnic table chained to the ground by the metal frame but I don’t sit at it. I brace one hand against the rough face of the brick and wrap the other arm around my punctured chest and gasp loudly for air that won’t come.
“Bree.”
I barely hear Logan’s voice behind me over my rasping for air. I feel sticky and clammy and faint. Folding at the waist, I bow in half and then drop, hunched in a ball, still clinging to the building at my side. Black spots bleed over the bright grass lawn, the graying pavement, the wood of the table, the red-brown of the bricks, staining everything. I can’t see.
A More Deserving Blackness Page 24
