The Edge of Night

by Jill Sorenson

  Watts waited for her to continue, a tranquil expression on her face.

  “We walked down the beach and sat under the pier. He gave me some water, I think. I was … really confused. He kissed me. I didn’t … resist, at first. He pushed me down on the sand, and I was just … so drunk. Instead of being afraid, I thought about what Cristina said about him, and I—I started laughing.”

  “Laughter is often a sign of distress or high anxiety,” Watts said. “It’s totally normal, even in this kind of situation.”

  “He didn’t react to it well.”

  “How so?”

  “He told me to shut up and hold still. I thought he was being too rough. Getting aggressive. So I tried to twist away, and my shirt ripped.”

  “He ripped your shirt?”

  “Yes. I rolled over, crawling through the sand.” Tears welled in her eyes, but she forced herself to continue. “He yanked down my jeans and tore off my underwear. I screamed and tried to get away, but he had me pinned. He started touching me. When he unzipped his pants, and I realized what he was going to do, I think I … froze.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “The next thing I remember is Eric hitting him.”

  “Did he penetrate you? With his penis, fingers, any foreign object?”

  “No.”

  “You said he touched you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where, specifically?”

  “My breasts, my butt, my … vulva.” She blushed again, wallowing in shame and embarrassment. “Did he ejaculate?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Did you say no?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  Captain Watts tilted her head to the side. “Did you communicate your unwillingness in another way?”

  “Well, I was struggling. Screaming.”

  “Do you think he understood that you were not giving consent?”

  “Yes,” she said, with complete conviction.

  Captain Watts smiled. “Thank you, Meghan. I know how difficult it is to discuss an attack like this, and I commend you for coming forward. Every time a woman speaks out against sexual violence, she encourages others to do the same.”

  Meghan didn’t feel brave, but she felt better. “I wasn’t even raped.”

  “You were sexually assaulted. Attempted rape is a very serious crime.”

  “What should I do?”

  “I always recommend a physical exam and sexual-assault counseling. Some victims block out memories of the attack or show symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder. It’s important to speak with a professional.”

  “Isn’t that what you are?”

  “I’m a police officer, not a doctor or a psychologist. My job is to take your statement and collect any available evidence. Your case is strong because we have a witness—a rarity in these situations. Even if you don’t press charges, we can move forward. And the suspect is already in custody.”

  Meghan felt a shiver of apprehension. “Do you think he killed Cristina?”

  “He’s a person of interest in the murder investigation.”

  “Okay,” she said, touching her aching forehead. “I’ll cooperate any way I can.”

  Noah had been sitting at his cubicle for hours, trying to distract himself with paperwork, when Patrick approached him. “Let’s go.”

  He jumped up from his desk, following his partner down the hall.

  “Santiago cleared you to come back,” Patrick said. “Meghan’s done, and they’re about to start interrogating the suspect. Official charge, according to Watts, is attempted rape. Looks like Eric Hernandez arrived just in time.”

  Noah’s relief was immense. He paused in the hallway, closing his eyes. Patrick laid a hand on his shoulder, giving him a comforting squeeze. Then Noah’s anger came seeping back. “That motherfucker—”

  “Stop,” Patrick warned. “You know I’d love to hold that guy down while you beat him. And I’d take a turn myself. But right now we have to act like ‘peace’ officers or you’re going to get kicked out of the viewing room again.”

  Noah took a deep breath, pushing his rage into a dark, ugly place inside himself. For a moment he felt like … Patrick. Mad and mean and ready to brawl. Their eyes met, and they understood each other perfectly. In some situations, civility was overrated. But Noah had to maintain his composure if he wanted to assist the investigation.

  “Can I see Meghan?”

  “Not yet. She’s speaking with a counselor.”

  He nodded. “Okay.”

  They continued on to the viewing room and took seats in the back. Santiago’s interview with Jack Bishop was in progress.

  “Who gave her the alcohol?” Santiago asked.

  “I did,” Jack replied.

  “What else?”

  “We smoked some pot.”

  “Yours?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How drunk was she?”

  Jack’s expression was belligerent. “She stumbled a little, but she could walk. She knew what she was doing.”

  “What was she doing?”

  “Hanging all over me! Whispering in my ear. She asked me to take her away from the party so we could be alone.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Near the pier.”

  “Any reason you went there?”

  Jack shrugged. “It’s kind of private, I guess. There are a lot of shadows.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Well, I’m not going to lie. She’s a cute girl, and I wanted to hook up with her.”

  “You wanted to have sex with her?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And was she interested in the same thing?”

  “I think so. She was kissing me, touching me. Then her crazy boyfriend came and attacked me for no reason.”

  “Her boyfriend?”

  “Eric Hernandez.”

  “Why do you think he hit you?”

  “Because he was jealous. He caught me by surprise, too. The first punch stunned me, and I was so disoriented, I didn’t fight back. He even kicked me.” Jack stood and lifted his shirt, showing dark bruises along his rib cage. “He’s a fucking maniac!”

  “After the altercation, did you go back to the party?”

  He sat back down. “No, I went to my car and passed out for a while. I didn’t want anyone to know Eric beat me up.”

  “Did you see Cristina Lopez again that night?”

  “I didn’t see anyone. In the morning, when I felt well enough, I drove home.”

  Santiago leaned back in his chair. He wasn’t buying any of Jack’s bullshit. “Are you aware that Meghan’s brother is a police officer?”

  Jack paled beneath his surfer tan. “No.”

  “Well, he is. He brought her in this morning, and she has a very different story.”

  “She’s lying.”

  Santiago took a photo out of his briefcase and slid it across the table. “Do you know who that is?”

  Jack grimaced when he saw it. “It’s … Cristina,” he whispered, looking away. For the first time in the duration of the interview, he appeared contrite. He pushed the picture back to Santiago, his eyes watery.

  “We found her under the pier this morning, dead. She’d been raped.”

  Jack shook his head, wordless.

  “It’s time for you to get real. Meghan Young said you were holding her down and tearing off her clothes. We have a witness who corroborates her version of the story, not yours. And we have a second victim in the same place.”

  “No,” Jack said.

  “Things are not looking good for you, Jack. Are you ready to tell me the truth, or should I go ahead and book you on murder charges?”

  Jack stared up at the ceiling, pressing his lips together.

  Santiago gathered his paperwork, preparing to leave.

  “Okay,” Jack said, his voice hoarse. “I got a little rough with Meghan. But I swear to God, I didn’t do anything to Cristina. I’m not a killer.”

  “Jus
t a rapist?”

  “No!”

  “Why don’t you tell me what really happened under the pier?”

  Jack crossed his arms over his chest, sullen. “After I kissed her, Meghan started laughing.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How did that make you feel?”

  “Angry. I wanted her to stop, so I grabbed the front of her shirt. She twisted away, and it tore down the front.”

  “You tore her shirt?”

  “It was an accident.”

  “Did she stop laughing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then what?”

  “I let her roll over, because I didn’t want her to … see me.”

  “Why not?”

  A dark flush crept up his face, reddening his cheeks. “The last girl I was with said I was … small. Since then I’ve been self-conscious about it.”

  “Did you want to punish her for laughing? Make her pay?”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “That wasn’t it at all.”

  “Come on, Jack.”

  “I wasn’t going to hurt her!”

  “You turned her over and yanked down her pants,” Santiago said in an even tone. “Then you ripped her underwear off her body. Are you seriously trying to tell me that your intention wasn’t rape?”

  He appeared nauseous. “I only wanted to look at her.”

  “Right,” Santiago scoffed.

  “I just wanted to look at her … and use my hand, okay?” His voice rose, almost breaking, and his eyes filled with tears. “I figured she wouldn’t mind that much. She was so drunk, she might not even remember.”

  Santiago was silent, weighing Jack’s words.

  “I was drunk, too, and … I wasn’t thinking clearly. It was stupid. But it wasn’t rape.”

  “What happened after Hernandez came?”

  “Like I said—he beat the shit out of me, and I went back to my car. I didn’t see anyone. I could hardly walk.”

  The interrogation continued for another hour, but Jack didn’t change his story. Although he admitted to sleeping with Cristina Lopez—the girl who’d made fun of his penis—he was vehement in his claim that he hadn’t seen her after the altercation. And he insisted that his intention with Meghan had never been rape.

  The mood in the viewing room was subdued. Everyone in the police department wanted to catch the killer. The SVU team would have liked to book Jack Bishop on a serious sexual-assault charge, but he’d probably end up with a slap on the wrist for lewd conduct.

  Noah had barely managed to contain himself during the interview. He tried not to entertain thoughts of violent retribution.

  For the first time in his life, it sucked to be a cop.

  Santiago didn’t take him off the case, but he did send him home early. Eric Hernandez had mentioned seeing some Eastside guys at the taco stand, so Patrick and another gang-unit officer would be following up on that.

  In the meantime, the homicide investigators were searching for a connection between the two murders.

  Noah wanted to stay and help, but Meghan needed him, too. He spoke with her sexual-assault counselor, who recommended that he let his sister recover at her own pace. He should be available and supportive, not smothering. To his surprise, the psychologist had recommended that Noah as well as Meghan should attend counseling. Family members of sexual-assault victims often dealt with feelings of rage, helplessness, and guilt.

  He admitted that he was struggling with those same emotions and promised to keep himself healthy, for Meghan’s sake.

  When he saw his sister again, she looked exhausted. Respecting her boundaries, he didn’t touch her as they left the station, and they barely spoke on the way home. There was an old-fashioned burger joint near his house that reminded him of the soda fountain in Cedar Glen, so he stopped there.

  She picked at her meal, but drank most of a vanilla milk shake. Some of the color returned to her cheeks. A good night’s sleep would diminish the circles under her eyes.

  Noah could use some rest himself.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  She dragged a French fry through ketchup, drawing a slick red line across her plate. “No. Do you want to talk about your sex life?”

  “It wasn’t sex, Meghan.”

  “Are you going to tell Mom?”

  “No. Are you?”

  She shrugged, abandoning the mutilated French fry. “She’ll want me to come home.”

  Noah didn’t dispute that, but he wasn’t going to send her back like an unwanted gift. As uncomfortable as he was admitting it, Meghan was an adult now. He couldn’t decide what was best for her. “I have some time off tomorrow—”

  “No,” she interrupted.

  “You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”

  “An outing, to cheer me up?”

  He sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “I have a date,” he admitted. “And she has a daughter. I told her about you.”

  There was a flicker of interest in her eyes. “How old is she?”

  He knew that Meghan liked kids. She used to earn pocket money babysitting and had been a favorite among the parents in their hometown. “She’s five. I said I’d take them to Wave City and bring you along. I think you’re the reason she agreed.”

  She snorted. “You must be losing your touch.”

  “You could be right.”

  “So you want me to babysit the little girl, keep her out of your way?”

  “No,” he said, frowning. “It was supposed to be a family thing.”

  She studied his face for a moment. “You like her.”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s divorced?”

  “I think she never got married.”

  “Hmm. As much as I approve of you dating someone who doesn’t sound like your usual type, I don’t think I’m up for an amusement-park adventure right now. Besides, that wouldn’t work out as well for you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It would end up with me instead of you playing with the kid. And that wouldn’t impress her mommy.” Noah smiled. “Good point. But I can always cancel.”

  “Why?”

  He just stared at her.

  “You don’t need to stay home with me, Noah,” she said, throwing her napkin down. “I’m fine.”

  He paid the check and followed her outside, wishing he didn’t feel so fucking ineffectual. She wasn’t fine. And he couldn’t do a damned thing about it.

  12

  April didn’t sleep well. Again.

  Last night at Club Suave, she’d heard the news about the latest murder. All of the waitresses were terrified. The police hadn’t made any definitive arrests, but they were investigating a link between the two crimes. According to Carmen, the second victim had worked with Eric at Bonita Market.

  April was worried for him, and for Josefa, who was still MIA.

  Noah’s kiss had also dominated her thoughts. She’d been afraid that her memories of Raul would interfere with her enjoyment, but she hadn’t thought of Jenny’s father at all when Noah put his hands on her. She’d been too busy kissing him back, moaning into his mouth. If she hadn’t felt the cool metal of his gun tucked into the waistband of his pants, she might have completely forgotten herself.

  Flushing with heat, she opened the top drawer of her dresser and took out her new bikini. It looked even skimpier than she remembered. Nibbling on her lower lip, she grabbed her other suit, comparing the two. The demure tankini showed a lot of wear and tear. The message it sent was unavailable.

  The bikini, on the other hand, said hot for it.

  Reminding herself that this was a date and that it was okay to look sexy, she tugged on the new bikini. It was mostly white, with flashy gold geometric shapes. Black strings held the top together, securing at the nape of her neck and the middle of her back.

  There were two more ties at each hip.

  Brevity was an issue, but the fabric covered all of the es
sential parts. She turned, checking out her backside in the mirror. There was nothing indecent about the fit. Some of her low-rise jeans revealed more.

  She called Jenny in for a second opinion. “What do you think?”

  Her eyes lit up with approval. “Your boobs look pretty.”

  April laughed, adjusting the triangle top. She was more concerned about the bikini bottoms, which exposed her hips and tummy, but Jenny had been fixated on breasts lately. April blamed the anatomically correct Bratz doll that Josefa had bought her. Underneath her hoochie outfit, the doll had sparkly underwear and plush boobies. “Thanks.”

  Jenny frowned at her own flat chest. “When will I get them?”

  “When you’re sixteen,” she said, hoping that was true. April had developed early and remembered feeling self-conscious about it. She hugged Jenny close, dropping a kiss on top of her head. “Don’t grow up too soon, okay?”

  Jenny squirmed away. “Why can’t Eric come?”

  She sighed, choosing a green sundress from her closet. “Eric’s not invited. But you’ll have lots of fun. Don’t worry.”

  Jenny often picked up on April’s nervousness and then mirrored it. Today was no exception. Changes in their routine also caused her energy level to skyrocket. She’d been bouncing off the walls all morning.

  While Jenny did somersaults on the living-room couch, April fussed over her appearance. Should she put her hair in a practical ponytail, or leave it soft and loose at her shoulders? Would wearing makeup to a water park look too high maintenance? Were rubber flip-flops too casual for a first date?

  In the end, she left her hair down and wore the flip-flops. After applying some waterproof mascara and a touch of lip gloss, she walked out into the living room. Jenny had just spilled orange juice all over the coffee table. She was trying to mop it up—with the nice beach towels April had set aside for Wave City.

  “Why did you do that?”

  She blinked her big brown eyes. “It spilled itself.”

  April groaned, taking the towels to the laundry basket. In Spanish, saying “the cup spilled itself” was perfectly acceptable, but the phrase didn’t translate the same way in English. April knew Jenny understood the difference.

  “You spilled it,” she corrected, pointing her finger.

  The only other large towels she owned were frayed and faded. She grabbed them out of the bathroom cabinet and repacked her beach bag. Then she fixed Jenny’s askew pigtails. “Go put your sandals on,” she said, swatting her bottom.