Let Me Know

by Stina Lindenblatt

  Lines pucker between her eyebrows. “Am I missing something? Why would I think you wrote them?”

  My head droops forward. God, I’m such an idiot. My friends believe in me, but I couldn’t get past my fear of losing them. So instead, I assumed they thought I was capable of doing what I’ve been accused of.

  I gave Paul power over me once. And due to my own stupidity, I almost gave it to his sister, too.

  “When you went missing,” Emma says as we leave the classroom, “your story was constantly on the news. At one point they announced you had been found. I’d lost Trent but you were still alive. I cried so hard because I was happy. But the report was wrong. The cops didn’t have a clue where you were. You can’t believe everything you hear on the news. They screw things up like everyone else.”

  A couple of students pass us, laughing at a private joke. It’s easy to laugh when your private life isn’t splashed on television and newspapers. How the hell do celebrities survive all the gossip that hits the tabloids? I couldn’t do it.

  “I’m hoping that’s the last of it,” I say. “The reporter wasn’t even supposed to mention my name, because I was a minor when it happened and ’cause I was raped.” I practically whisper the last part.

  “So why did she?”

  I shrug. “Maybe she figured it didn’t count since the letters were supposed to be love letters. According to Paul’s sister, I wasn’t kidnapped. I was there with Paul willingly.” I cringe at the disgust on Emma’s face each time I mention Paul’s name.

  “Maybe,” she says, slowly sounding out the word.

  We hug and I head to the library. Marcus isn’t at a table in the library when I arrive. I continue to the back of the room. That way I won’t be noticeable. That way I can hide and make sure no one pays more attention to me than they should.

  A few people look my way as I pass, but no hint of recognition crosses their faces.

  I’m safe.

  *

  I stride through the crowded food court, dodging past tables as I search for my friends.

  A hand grabs my arm from behind me. “Hey, babe, what’s the rush?”

  My body stiffens at his touch. I turn to find a tall, bulky guy I don’t recognize leering at me. His hair is buzz-cut short and he has a large star tattoo on the side of his neck. I might not recognize him, but I do recognize the guy from this morning at the table next to us watching the exchange. Like this morning, he’s checking me over.

  I jerk my arm away and keep walking.

  The guy snatches my arm back. “Hey, I wanna talk to you. I hear you’re into the heavy stuff.”

  Frowning, I try to wrench my arm free. “What are you talking about?”

  His fingers curl into my arm to the point of causing me pain. I gasp, too stunned by his actions to do anything else.

  He lowers his voice to a seductive purr. “You know, as in sex. Whips. Bondage. The good stuff.” My stomach crashes to my feet and my body starts shaking. I want to run, but my fight-and-flight reaction has bailed on me.

  “Get your hand off her,” Marcus says, his tone as sharp as the blade of an ax. He rests his hand on my lower back, his message unmistakable.

  To anyone but this guy.

  Buzz Cut scowls. “What’s your problem?”

  Everyone at the surrounding tables watches us with growing interest. The food-court noise is nothing compared to the silence emanating from near us.

  “My problem is you’re touching my girlfriend.”

  Buzz Cut’s hand drops away from my arm. “Well, then you’re a lucky guy.” He winks at me and joins his friends.

  With his hand still protectively on my back, Marcus guides me over to Jordan and Chase.

  “You’re shaking,” he says as we take our seats across from them. “What did he say to you?” Unlike everyone else in the general area, Jordan and Chase are both deep in conversation, oblivious to what happened.

  “He knows.”

  “Knows what?”

  “He knows about the news report. He thinks I get off…” I shudder, the cruelty of the word choking me. “That I get off on being beaten during sex.”

  Marcus turns around in his seat and throws Buzz Cut a dark look. Not that the guy sees it. He and his friends are preoccupied with their current topic of interest—which hopefully doesn’t involve me.

  “What’s going on?” Chase asks.

  “People saw the news report last night about the letters to Paul,” I say.

  “Has anyone else said anything to you about it?” Marcus asks.

  “No. He’s the only one. But his friend, who was in my math class last term, was pointing me out to some other guys this morning.”

  “Give it a day or two and everyone will move on.” Chase’s tone is optimistic but the look in his eyes is far from it. He believes that like he believes in the Easter bunny.

  “It’s a good thing we’re starting our self-defense class tonight.” Jordan’s serious expression transforms to a grin. “Then you can kick the butt of the next guy who harasses you.”

  “Unless if he’s like that loser.” I jerk my head back in the direction of Buzz Cut. “That might turn him on.”

  Marcus glares at the guy again. “In that case, I’m staying with you twenty-four seven. Until the news gets their ass together and releases the truth about the letters. I’m not risking another shithead thinking he has the right to touch you.”

  I place my hand on his forearm. His muscles are bunched up tight. I gently rub them, trying to ease the tension out of him. “You can’t miss your classes, Marcus. They’re too important. Paul’s already screwed up enough people’s lives. I’m not letting him screw up yours too.”

  Marcus opens his mouth to say something as a redhead in painted-on jeans places her hand on his shoulder. Her equally skinny friend with straight black hair hungrily eyes him. An expression mirrored by the redhead.

  He turns to them. “Yes?”

  “We’ve missed you, Marcus,” Redhead says, her voice dripping like molasses off a spoon.

  Jordan rolls her eyes and I press my lips together to keep from laughing. At Jordan. Not at the two girls. Though from the way they’re paying attention to Marcus and not us, I doubt they would have even noticed if I did laugh.

  I unwrap the egg sandwich Marcus made me before we left for class this morning, willing the girls to go away.

  “There’s a party this weekend and we’re hoping you’ll come.” Redhead leans over, her hand high on his thigh, her cleavage inches from his face. “Maybe we could have some more two-on-one action.” She moves her hand higher, her little finger getting way too intimate with my boyfriend.

  My appetite vanishes and I dump my sandwich onto the plastic wrap. Marcus has been involved with more girls than I care to think about, but it doesn’t mean I want to know all the details about their pasts. Especially details like this.

  Unable to bear seeing the sympathy in Jordan’s and Chase’s eyes, I pick apart my sandwich and pretend I’m anywhere but here.

  “I have a girlfriend.”

  “Who doesn’t like to share,” I say without looking up. The heated words fall from my mouth before I even realize they were there.

  Jordan coughs to hide her laugh. Chase and Marcus are looking at me with amusement twitching at their lips. Only the two girls don’t find my comment funny. They look me over, clearly deciding I don’t meet their level of blatant sex appeal. And it’s true. I don’t.

  Marcus wraps his arm around my waist and smiles at them.

  “Well, if you change your mind, you know our number,” the black-haired girl says, pouting.

  “That’s what they think,” he mutters as they walk away. He turns to me, beaming, like he’s proud of something. “I’ve only kept your number, Kitten.”

  “You mean you don’t have a little black book?” Jordan asks, clearly shocked at what she assumed would be a given.

  He shakes his head. “Never needed one. I rarely had sex with the same girl twice.
” Other than with Tammara. Until she wanted their friends-with-benefits arrangement to become something more.

  “So why did you ask for their phone numbers if you weren’t gonna keep them?” Jordan’s tone isn’t filled with disgust, just curiosity. Like she’s planning to write a how-to book on dating and this is research.

  “I didn’t. Girls just give ’em to me.” He flashes me a smile. “Except for Amber. It took me a while to convince her to give me her number.” And the only reason I did was because he was tutoring me in math. We needed to be able to contact each other if there was a change of plan.

  As I watch the girls sashay away, I wonder how sex has become, to everyone else, the thing that defines me and Marcus—even if everyone is wrong about what they perceive to be the truth, that I’m into violent sex and Marcus is a man-whore. Though the bigger question is: How can we change it if no one wants to believe us?

  Chapter Eleven

  Amber

  The next evening I stuff my psych book and change of clothes into my backpack. “If anyone’s looking for me, I’ve gone to Marcus’s to study.”

  Brittany, my roommate, smirks. “Study? Is that what you’re calling it?” Her gaze drops to my bag. “Do you usually bring a change of clothing when you study?”

  “Sure, don’t you?” I ask with feigned innocence.

  She flicks an eraser at me. It bounces off my shoulder. I flinch, even though it didn’t hit hard, and let it fall to the floor.

  On the desk are her latest manga drawings she’s currently working on. She’s premed majoring in criminology, but whenever she’s procrastinating or is pissed at something, she sketches.

  This picture is darker than her usual ones. A fierce dragon rears above a young woman, ready to tear her to pieces. The girl’s long dark brown hair flows around her shoulders. She’s wearing a black dress and thigh-high boots. The same dress and boots I’ve seen on Brittany.

  “Has Jake tried contacting you again?” Her boyfriend who raped her last semester. Well, now ex-boyfriend. The last time she drew a picture of this dragon, he’d called her to tell her he was sorry and wanted to get back together with her.

  “I hung up on him like last time.”

  “Good. But you should tell the cops that he’s harassing you.”

  Brittany picks up the eraser from the floor. “What good would that do?”

  “They could tell you how to get a restraining order so he leaves you alone.” And hopefully he’s not one of those guys who ignores it. I decide not to share that part with Brittany. But at least then the D.A. can hit him with more charges, beyond rape and battery.

  She continues working on her picture.

  “Promise me you’ll tell the cops.”

  She sighs, eyes locked on the drawing. “Okay, I promise.” I can’t tell if she’s telling the truth or not, but decide to let it go. For now.

  I grab my backpack and laptop, and leave the room.

  Glancing around every few seconds, I slip down the hallway, hoping I can escape the building before anyone interrogates me about the allegations that I enjoy being beaten during sex. I can’t believe how everyone is reacting to the erroneous story. I was kidnapped and tortured by a guy who was stalking me, but no one cares about that. They’re more interested in the lies. Not once since the news broke, and people realized I am the Amber Scott, has anyone asked me how I’m doing. It’s like the truth isn’t sensational enough to bother with, at least not compared to the sex scandal.

  I’m about to head downstairs when a cop steps out of the R.A’s room, followed by Becca the R.A.

  “Amber,” she says. “Officer O’Neil is here to talk to you.”

  Ignoring her, I ask him, “About what?”

  “This is something we need to discuss at the station.”

  “Why? Am I in trouble?”

  His expression isn’t very reassuring. “I have questions for you regarding some letters we’ve received.”

  “I’m allowed one phone call, right?” I squeak even though there’s no reason for me to be nervous.

  “You’re not being arrested,” is his nonanswer.

  He escorts me to his cruiser and opens the back door for me. The few people milling around watch with interest. I slide onto the backseat and with shaky hands, I phone Mom. She tells me not to worry. She’ll contact someone and they’ll meet me at the station.

  Then I call Marcus and update him on what’s happening.

  “I’m on my way,” he says. Despite everything going on, a comforting warmth spreads through me. Hanging out at a police station can’t be up there on his list of favorite places, not with his past experiences, yet he plans to go there. For me.

  As the cruiser pulls up to the station, a crowd surges forward. Reporters, I’m guessing, from the camera and video gear some are sporting.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, checking to see if I spot any familiar faces. I haven’t heard of any more mall shootings, and don’t they usually hang around the mall when that happens?

  “They found out we need to question you.” He flashes me a sympathetic look in the rearview mirror. The first one he’s given me since showing up at the dorm.

  But instead of making me less jittery, it exacerbates the panic flooding me, to the point where I’m drowning. I pull my knees to my chest and make myself smaller.

  The cop parks the cruiser and escorts me to the building. Several other cops help with crowd control.

  But it’s not enough to prevent a reporter from slipping past. He sticks a microphone in my face. “Amber, can you tell us why you wrote those letters to Mr. Carson?”

  Don’t speak to reporters, Amber, Mom’s voice says in my head. Don’t give them the opportunity to twist your words.

  I remain silent and focus on the sidewalk, trying to block out their voices.

  “Do you love Paul Carson?” someone yells.

  I know you love me, Amber. Paul’s voice replaces Mom’s. I cringe at the memory of it and at the memory of him stroking my hair, like my mom used to do when I was scared of storms. You might not be ready to say the words yet, but you will. And then we’ll be together forever and ever.

  My body trembles as his words wrap around me. I pull away from myself to keep from being yanked into a flashback. I’m here but I’m not. Numb, but not numb enough.

  The cop directs me inside the brick building to a small room with a mirror on one wall, and a table with three chairs. All the walls match with their dingy white color, but the other three are empty, without as much as a window to make the place less claustrophobic.

  A small female cop joins us, dressed in a navy pantsuit. She might look tiny, but I don’t doubt she could kick some major ass if need be. She smiles at me. It’s not enough to drive away the fear.

  “I’m Detective Hale,” she says. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “No thanks.” My voice is as shaky as my body. I take a deep breath while trying not to be obvious about it. I’ve done nothing wrong. There’s nothing to be nervous about. It doesn’t matter how many times I tell myself this, I can’t convince my body and brain that it’s true.

  To distract myself, I play with the lotus charm Marcus gave me. Strong. I can be that. Right?

  The door opens and a woman my mom’s age, wearing slim-fitting jeans and a flowery blouse, enters the small room.

  “Hi, Amber.” She holds out her hand for me to shake. “I’m Sheryl Kenyon. Your mom and I are old law school friends. She asked me to be here with you since she couldn’t.”

  “I don’t get what I’ve done wrong.”

  “You haven’t done anything wrong, Amber. Despite what Mr. Carson’s lawyer is claiming, you’re still very much the victim. But we need to prove it in light of the recent evidence.”

  “You mean the letters? I didn’t write them. I swear I didn’t.”

  Sheryl takes the seat beside mine. Detective Hale sits across from us and places a thick file on the table.

  She opens it and removes a pi
ece of paper, which she slides across the table to me. “Does this look familiar?”

  I read it and frown. “It looks like my writing, but I never wrote this.” The letter is embarrassingly sappy and it sounds like I was horny for Paul when I supposedly wrote it. It’s not something I would have written, even for Trent. “Don’t you have someone who can analyze handwriting? They’ll tell you it’s a fake.”

  “Someone did analyze it with a writing sample your mother gave us. It was a match.”

  A part of me wants to curl in a tight ball and pretend none of this is happening. It’s not the part that says, loudly, “But that’s impossible. I. Didn’t. Write. It.”

  Sheryl puts her hand on mine. It’s not to comfort me. It’s to shut me up. “Handwriting analysis isn’t a perfect science. Handwriting can be faked by someone who knows what he’s doing.” She isn’t telling me this. I’m just in the room as far as she’s concerned. This conversation is directed at the detective. “It’s my understanding that the letters claim Amber is involved in masochism. But there is no proof that she is. The letters prove nothing. And even if she were involved in it, it does not entitle anyone, including Mr. Carson, to rape her.”

  Detective Hale removes a photo from the file and slides it across the table to us. In it, I’m standing at the counter in the adult store with Emma, and the salesclerk is showing me the whip. The picture looks like it came from a store security camera.

  My eyes widen and I stare at the photo. I’m nothing more than a puppet whose strings are being moved at someone’s whim. “It’s not what it looks like. Emma and I were looking for gag gifts for our boyfriends. All I bought was body lotion.”

  “Why is he showing you the whip?” the detective asks.

  “I don’t know. I saw them and he mistakenly thought I was interested. He showed me one and I zoned out.”

  “Zoned out?”

  “Yes. I was there and I wasn’t. Paul whipped me once because I wouldn’t talk to him and because I wouldn’t eat.” I subconsciously move my hand to my shoulder. Below it is the worst of my scars. “But I’m sure you already know that.” My gaze falls to the file.

  “Amber was severely injured by Mr. Carson’s actions,” Sheryl points out. “The wounds were allowed to fester and were what one would hardly call the result of consensual sexual activity. If she hadn’t been found when she was, she would have died from them.”