Snapshot

by Camryn King

  Jack?

  The palms of her hands lifted to her forehead. Kennedy slowly massaged it, trying to bring the snippets of what she remembered from last night into one, cohesive picture. She opened her mouth. To speak? To ask the empty room, the air, what happened? Only then did she notice how dry her mouth was, and the aftertaste of something acidic, or acrid, at the back of her tongue. Definitely not the taste of last night’s coffee. Had she been drugged and then assaulted? The mere thought made her heart drop. She clutched her Kegel muscles. There was no soreness and given it had been months since she’d had sex, there would be. Still, she wouldn’t take a shower. Doing so could wash away potential evidence. She’d watched enough crime TV to know that. Will was heavily endowed. Maybe Jack wasn’t. Maybe it wasn’t Jack. What if it was someone else? Why couldn’t she remember what happened? Couldn’t have been just the wine, it had to have been something stronger, like a date rape drug. The throbbing returned full force.

  Her wallet lay open, on top of the purse. Kennedy snatched it up. The clear pocket that should have held her driver’s license was empty. Credit cards, debit cards, even her grocery store reward cards—gone. But the twenty-five dollars from the ATM she’d taken out for tips was still in there? WTH? To take charge cards but leave the cash made no sense at all. Anger at being ripped off spurred her into action. The faster this crime got reported, the better chance police would have to catch whoever violated her room. Maybe her body. Definitely her trust.

  Instinctively, she headed toward the nightstand to grab her phone. That led to a growl of frustration and quick strides to where last night’s clothes had been tossed on the couch. She dressed in seconds, then headed downstairs without thought for a card key. The elevator doors had barely opened when she shot through them and strode straight to the front desk. She met bright eyes and cheery smiles with a statement that quickly shifted the mood.

  “I need the police. I’ve been robbed.”

  The reaction was shock. Not only from those behind the counter, but from the couple beside her who’d just checked in. Not a great public service announcement. Kennedy hadn’t even noticed them there. Her focus was direct, and singular. Police. Investigation. Rape kit. Justice. Now.

  “Ms. Wade! I’m so sorry.” The woman, seeming barely a girl, really, spoke from her heart with her hands to her chest. “Where were you coming from?”

  “My room. That’s where it happened.”

  A woman appeared from the office behind them. Her stride strong, her back straight, she bypassed the counter and walked directly to Kennedy.

  “Excuse me, miss. I’m Darlene Gardner, the front desk manager. I overhead your statement. Can you please come with me into the office?” Her voice was no nonsense, but her eyes were kind. She turned and headed back that way without waiting for an answer.

  Kennedy followed her, and for the first time noticed other guests in the lobby. And Hank’s face, creased and troubled, staring at her from across the room. He’d recommended the restaurant where she’d met Jack. Was he in on what happened? Had it been smiling, friendly Hank who removed her clothes and took her belongings?

  The woman who’d come for her quietly closed the door. “Please, sit down.”

  “I don’t have time to sit! Somebody robbed me. Maybe even raped me. I went out last night for a simple dinner and drinks and woke up this morning with no electronics, wearing no clothes and having no memory of what happened!”

  “I’m deeply sorry,” the woman continued, unruffled, her voice low and calm. “But before I can help you, and believe me, I want to and I will, I need to hear the whole story to know who to call.”

  “Who else do you call when someone’s been robbed, except the police? For all I know the perpetrator could still be somewhere in the hotel. I need law enforcement, now!”

  A short stare, a brief nod, and then, “Very well. But I am the front desk supervisor and having no idea what took place, I don’t have the authority to make that call. The hotel mana—”

  Kennedy jumped up and headed for the door. “I’m not waiting for permission to report a crime. I’ll use a payphone. I’ll walk to the station if I have to.”

  “Please! Don’t leave.”

  Kennedy turned, her hand on the doorknob, to see the supervisor standing, too. A second of silence passed between them.

  “I don’t know what you’ve been through, but I do know what it’s like to be mistreated. I am only trying to be thorough, and experience has taught us that the more information we can document as quickly as possible, the greater the opportunity to capture details that might otherwise be forgotten and left out.

  “I will get the hotel manager in here immediately, and we will call the authorities, alright? While they’re coming, if you please, I will begin a report on what happened.”

  The sincerity and compassion in the supervisor’s words brought a bit of calm to Kennedy’s spirit and mistiness to her eyes.

  “Thank you.” She walked back to the chair and sat.

  “Most certainly.”

  “What is your name again?”

  A small smile slipped past the stalwart demeanor behind a navy suit and crisp white blouse. “Darlene Gardner. Give me a moment to contact the manager.” She picked up the phone and punched a few keys. Almost immediately there was a tap on the office door before it opened, and an imposing man with a serious expression stepped inside.

  “Mr. Ledard, I was just ringing you.”

  He nodded at Darlene, but his eyes were on Kennedy. “Are you the guest claiming to have been assaulted?”

  “I am the one who was definitely assaulted. There is no doubt.”

  “Of course. Forgive my choice of words.” He extended his hand. “I’m Charles Ledard, the hotel manager.”

  “Did someone phone you?” Darlene asked.

  “I was crossing the lobby and was notified that we had an emergency. Have the police been called?”

  “I was just phoning you to have that done.”

  “Let’s get them down here.” Charles pointed toward the chair beside Kennedy. “May I?”

  “Sure.”

  He sat down. Kennedy shifted her body toward him.

  “Is it possible for you to tell us what happened?” Kennedy was struck by the way he worded the question, his mild manner contrasting with his commanding presence and with Darlene’s measured tone.

  “Honestly, I was hoping to wait for the police and avoid having to repeat myself.”

  Charles nodded. “We can do that.”

  No pushback. No rebuttal. Nothing about lines of command and protocol, or time being relevant. Kennedy’s face remained neutral, but in that moment, Darlene became one not to trust.

  The police arrived within minutes, a team—male and female—strictly business. “We’d like to speak with you privately,” the woman said once introductions were made.

  “I don’t want to repeat this story,” Kennedy interjected, as the memory of waking up naked crossed her mind. “The hotel wants me to give them a report, too. Thinking back on what happened or might have happened is difficult.”

  “We will provide details to them from what you tell us,” the woman, Stephanie, replied. She looked at Darlene. “May we use this office?”

  Charles and Darlene left. Stephanie sat in the seat Darlene had vacated. Her partner, Bayron, remained standing, notepad in hand. Stephanie pulled out a small tape recorder. “We would like to tape this conversation for documentation. Do you give your consent?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, Kennedy, it is our understanding that a robbery occurred?” Kennedy nodded. Stephanie sat back in the chair. “When did this happen?”

  “Sometime between midnight and this morning, I guess. The memories are fuzzy. I may have been drugged. And . . . assaulted.” She couldn’t bring herself to say “raped” again.

  The police exchanged a look. “Tell us what happened,” Stephanie said, “as best you can.”

  Kennedy briefly recounted what led
to her visit, and then taking an extra day to enjoy the island. She told of the boat ride, going to dinner, meeting Jack and sharing an aperitif in the hotel’s lounge.

  “I paid the bill and we walked to the elevator. He asked for my floor. I told him. He pushed it. Then he pushed . . .” Kennedy stopped, closed her eyes. “Nine or ten, I believe. And . . . that’s all I remember until waking up today, realizing that I missed my flight, and because of that will also be a no show at tonight’s fabulous Friday.”

  Stephanie’s brow creased. She exchanged another look with Bayron. “Fabulous Friday?”

  “Never mind.” Kennedy waved a dismissive hand. “It’s a small gathering of professional friends back in Chicago. One of their birthday’s is today so tonight is going to be a celebration of that, too.”

  Bayron straightened and took a step toward her. “What day is it, Ms. Wade?”

  “What kind of question is that? It’s Friday.” Concerned eyes stared back at her. “Isn’t it?”

  “No, Ms. Wade,” Stephanie said softly. “It’s Saturday.”

  The truth punched Kennedy in the gut. She’d been out cold for two nights.

  3

  Kennedy had lost over thirty hours that she’d never get back. At first, she blamed the hotel. Why hadn’t the front desk called her? Why didn’t housekeeping try to clean her room? Was no one aware that a guest who’d planned to check out on Friday was still there a day later? A quick investigation provided the answer. Two days had been added to her stay, courtesy of a PayPal account with an IP address linked to a Baltic country. Law enforcement recorded the information, said they’d investigate. Kennedy’s thought? Good luck with that. A “do not disturb” sign was all it took to keep housekeeping out and everyone unaware of a crime.

  She spent the entire Saturday with hotel personnel and law enforcement trying to piece together what had happened. An hour of that was at a medical center where she’d been given a physical exam that showed no signs of vaginal trauma as one might expect had forced sex occurred. Still, they conducted a rape kit and had blood drawn in hopes of identifying what was used to drug her. She’d phoned the U. S. Embassy and met with a representative with information on continuing the case once back stateside. By the time she boarded her evening flight to return to Chicago she’d been made glad twice—delighted to arrive in the beautiful Bahamas and happy as hell to be leaving.

  Returning home, she didn’t have the luxury of dwelling on what had happened in the Bahamas. Freelancing was a constant hustle and she had a mortgage. It wasn’t supposed to be a struggle to pay it. That came courtesy of a man named Will and her own foolish action of believing a liar who said the condo would be a home they’d share. A call from the Bahamas on Monday morning helped her get back into the freelance flow. The rape kit results came in. She hadn’t been sexually assaulted. That only left her to wonder how she ended up naked. Since there had been no physical violation, was it possible that in her drugged state she’d removed her own clothes? As improbable as that seemed, it felt infinitely better than imagining that she’d been undressed, ogled, and groped by a stranger. The more she warmed up to this take on the story, the better she felt.

  The week following the incident was a whirlwind of insurance claim filings, electronics store visits, freelance website scrolling, and nonstop work. Saturday was a day of catching up with the mundane—cleaning, laundry, and her standing mani/pedi appointment. She’d also shopped for a birthday gift, a peace offering she hoped would make up for missing her best friend Gwen’s birthday, even though her absence couldn’t be helped. That night she went to bed early and was up at seven the next morning for a morning jog to the coffee shop. She bought dark roast java, a bagel, and the Chicago Star. Super critical of her own work, Kennedy gave herself a pat on this one. She felt the article accurately captured what made the Bahamas such a popular destination. The pictures backed up those words. No time to rest on her laurels, though. She spent the rest of the day scouring various websites for jobs.

  By that evening, Kennedy was more than ready to meet up with Logan, a former co-worker who Kennedy loved like a brother, and her bestie, Gwen. She entered Leftovers, the unofficial new hang out of the city’s cool crowd. It was just after seven. The restaurant and bar had a full house, but she weaved her way through the suits and stilettos toward the booth where her friends sat. Along the way she waved at a few familiar faces and realized it was the first time since the incident in the Caribbean that she wasn’t subconsciously searching for a suspect.

  “Hey, guys!” Kennedy reached Logan first.

  He stood and gave her a hug. “Hey, you!”

  “How are you doing, girl?” Kennedy sat next to Gwen and leaned over for a squeeze, then held out the peace offering hidden within a glittery gift bag. “Happy birthday!”

  “Thank you,” Gwen replied, accepting the gift even as she leaned forward, her voice low and accusatory. “Why didn’t you tell anybody that you were robbed?”

  Kennedy cut her eyes at Logan. “I did tell anybody, and obviously, anybody told somebody else.”

  “I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone?” He covered his mouth. “Oops.”

  “Never mind that. Said the woman to the person she thought was her best friend,” Gwen mumbled before asking, “What happened?”

  “It’s a long story, one that will go down better with drinks. But first, open your present.”

  Gwen’s frown flipped as she removed the multi-colored tissue papers from the bag and placed them beside her. Her eyes gleamed as she reached in and pulled out a CD box set and when she saw the cover she squealed. “Aretha! You know that’s my girl!”

  She threw her arms around Kennedy’s neck and gave her an exuberant hug, then set back and flipped over the box.

  “It’s supposed to be a complete set of all the songs she recorded on Atlantic Records.”

  “Who?” Logan asked.

  “Aretha,” Gwen intoned, “and if you ask for a last name, I’ll cut you.”

  The table cracked up.

  “Everybody knows Aretha Franklin,” Logan said. “We’ve sampled her a couple times when creating beats.”

  “And paid her I hope.”

  “Of course,” Logan replied, with a hand over his heart as if wounded.

  “Well, whatever it was, it wasn’t enough. How are you going to capture all of what she delivered in a loop?”

  “Come down to the studio some time and I’ll show you.”

  Gwen rolled her eyes.

  “Her grandmother worshipped Aretha’s talent,” Kennedy said to Logan, hoping to ward off an argument. Logan’s hip-hop obsession and music producer aspirations were as strong as Gwen’s love for old school R&B. “Gwen grew up to her music. Plus, I think she’s an old soul.”

  The waiter came around. They ordered drinks.

  “Thanks again,” Gwen said, before placing the box back in the gift bag and setting the bag near the wall. “I can’t wait to play them. With this amazing gift, plus knowing what happened in the Bahamas, you are forgiven for being MIA on my special day. I’m just glad to see that you’re alright.”

  Whether that was true or not was up to debate, but Kennedy let the comment slide. She wanted to be alright. Maybe if she kept hearing she was, she’d believe it.

  “I read the article,” Gwen continued. “It was fabulous, made me want to go online and buy a ticket right then.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Those pictures were stunning. That rainbow? Wow. Was it photoshopped?”

  “No, but I can understand why you’d say that. I adjusted the lighting to bring out the depth of color. But it was even more amazing than what you saw in the paper.”

  “The way you framed it, with the greenery from that island in the middle of the picture, the white sand and that sparkling blue water . . . very well done, girl.”

  “I hope it leads to steadier work. That’s my goal.”

  Gwen looked at Logan. “Did you see the article?”

  “I’
m reading it now,” Logan said, cellphone in hand.

  “Can we talk about your trip at all, or is the whole island experience off limits until you get drunk?”

  “Give me a break, Gwendolyn McPherson. Nobody said anything about getting drunk.”

  “Did you get drunk in the Bahamas?” Logan asked. “Because if you did you probably got some. You told everybody about the newspaper spread but I know the real reason you went down there was to forget about Will.”

  “Would you get out of my bedroom?” Kennedy asked. “And worry about who’s between your sheets.”

  “I’m trying to get between yours.” Logan backed up his audacious statement with an unapologetic stare.

  “Whatever, little boy.”

  “Yeah, you won’t be saying that after I drop the boxers.”

  Gwen began an exaggerated bout of coughing. “Time out, time out!”

  Kennedy agreed. Logan was handsome, she’d give him that, and the kind of man she liked—tall, lanky, coffee-colored with a generous splash of crème, and sporting just the right amount of facial hair. But he’d just turned twenty-three. Even though Will was five years older than her twenty-eight ball drops, Kennedy felt she’d spent two years babysitting a child. Next round she wanted a grown-ass man.

  “So how was your time on the island?” Gwen asked. “Did you like it as much as we did Jamaica?”

  “It’s hard to compare them. Jamaica was a vacation. The Bahamas was work.”

  “I saw some of your social media posts,” Logan said. “That boat ride didn’t look like work to me.”

  “You posted pics on social media, too?” Gwen reached for her cellphone, tapped the screen and began to scroll.

  “Not the ones that accompanied the article.”

  Gwen kept scrolling. The server returned with their drinks. “Who is this in the selfie pic? He’s kinda cute.”

  “His name is Clinton. He works for the boat rental company.”