Atonement: An Interracial Romance (Possession Duet Book 2)

by T. K. Leigh

  Over the course of the weekend…hell, our relationship, he’s repeatedly told me he’s with me. That he’ll stand by my side through it all. But as I bask in the way he reveres me, the way he gives me every last part of him, I physically feel the meaning behind his repeated assurances.

  I breathe into him as I give him all my anguish, pain, frustration. And he offers me his strength, courage, and fortitude, bringing me back to life after days of wondering if any of it is worth it. In this moment, I know it is. Know that Wes is worth fighting for. His kiss is the reminder I need that things are different this time around. That I have people who believe me on my side.

  I needed a few days to fully process everything. Now that I have, I’m ready to fight again. Like Hazel reminded me… Broken girls turn into warriors. I’m ready to pick up my sword and slay my dragon.

  Wes’ desperation slows as he reluctantly pulls his lips from mine, peering down at me with a hint of a smile.

  “I love you, honeybee. Me for you.”

  “You for me,” I answer. “For the rest of our lives.”

  He nods. “No matter what.”

  Chapter Nine

  Londyn

  “How are you holding up?” Sophia asks, wrapping her arms around me the second she walks into the waiting room of her posh office in downtown Atlanta located mere blocks away from my old office building. I even drove past the intersection where, on a fateful day back in June, I met the man who would change my life as I know it.

  “Better than I thought I’d be,” I tell her.

  She pulls back, meeting my eyes, keeping her hands on my biceps. “That’s wonderful to hear.” She drops her hold, gesturing toward the hallway. “Let’s go talk for a few minutes while we wait for Detective Trager. She’s from the Special Victims Unit of the Major Crimes Division. They were going to send the detective they’d originally assigned to the case, but I insisted on someone from Special Victims due to the nature of the incident.”

  “That’s good, right?” I ask as I follow her.

  “Yes. These detectives have gone through extensive training on how to work with victims of sexual assault.”

  I briefly close my eyes, relief filling me that this won’t be like it was all those years ago. I subconsciously bring my hand up to my necklace, running my fingers over the pendant. Like the real Medusa, it seems to possess some sort of mystical power I can’t explain, making me more confident and assured than I thought possible after everything.

  “That’s beautiful,” Sophia remarks as she gestures to a chair at a large conference table in her corner office, downtown Atlanta buzzing a dozen stories below us. She arches a perfectly manicured brow. “Wes?”

  “Yes.” I drop my hold on it, removing my coat and settling into my chair.

  “He’s a good man.”

  Sophia sits beside me, writing the date and my name on a fresh page of a yellow legal pad. “Now, we’ve already gone over some of this when we spoke on the phone yesterday, but I want to reiterate to just tell your story. Everything you say today will be a part of the investigative report. If at any point I don’t like the questioning, I’ll say so. I’m here to watch out for your rights. But it’s my hope that, by being forthcoming and honest, they’ll realize you were well within your rights to do what you did and the DA will decline to pursue charges. Okay?”

  I draw in a deep breath. “Okay.”

  “Good.”

  There’s a knock, and we look toward the door, a blonde in a sleek pencil skirt and pressed blouse opening it.

  “Sophia, Detective Trager and Detective Stocker are here for your ten o’clock.”

  She stands, brows furrowed as a petite woman with brown hair and a large man with a shaved head walk into the room.

  “Detectives. I was under the impression we would only be meeting with Detective Trager due to the sensitive nature of the case.”

  The woman parts her lips to respond, but the male detective interjects. “Which is why Detective Trager is here. But the captain requested I also attend to make sure we dot all our i’s and cross all our t’s. As you know, this has become a high-profile case. Not only with the media initially thinking it was another mass shooting, but also since the victim married into the Bradford family. There’s a lot of pressure from above my pay grade to ensure no mistakes are made.”

  I look at Sophia, my stomach churning at the idea of having to tell him all my secrets. It doesn’t help that he bears a striking resemblance to the officer who took my statement all those years ago when I first tried to turn Nick in. I fear history will repeat itself. That this detective will also discount my story and find me at fault.

  “Of course, we can easily do this down at the station instead.”

  I bring my hand back up to my necklace, rubbing the outline of Medusa’s snakes and glittering eyes, willing her to work her magic and turn him to stone.

  “Here is fine,” Sophia says with authority, gesturing to a few chairs across the table for them to sit. “This is my client, Londyn Bennett.”

  The woman smiles warmly at me, extending her hand. “Detective Anabelle Trager.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I say as we shake.

  Once she releases my hand, I look at the other detective, who barely acknowledges me with anything more than a curt nod. Instead, he opens a file, his eyes scanning what I recognize as a police report.

  “Now, your lawyer has advised you regarding your rights, correct?” he asks, uncapping a pen. “That everything you say here today will be part of the record and can be used during court proceedings?”

  “Yes.”

  He finally looks at me. “And you’re willing to voluntarily answer questions regarding the events that occurred at The Mad Batter bakery in Buckhead on January first of this year. Is that correct?”

  “Yes,” I repeat, trying to subdue the nervous fluttering in my stomach.

  “As I mentioned to Detective Trager yesterday,” Sophia begins, “my client would also like to make a statement in support of a sexual assault charge against Mr. Domenic Jaskulski.”

  Detective Stocker peruses the police report. “The victim?”

  “In a matter of speaking, I suppose.”

  He pauses for a moment, then leans back in his chair. “We’ll see if the facts warrant it. Let’s start with how you know the victim.”

  Sophia opens her mouth, but Detective Stocker cuts her off before she can utter a single syllable.

  “I understand your client’s version of events may not paint him as the victim,” he states in a patronizing voice that makes my skin crawl. It reminds me of the way Nick spoke to me. “But according to the police report, Mr. Jaskulski was the one who was wheeled out of his wife’s bakery on a stretcher with a gunshot wound to the shoulder. So right now, he is the victim.”

  He floats his stare toward me. “I’ll ask again. How do you know the victim?”

  I steal a glance at Sophia, noticing her jaw tightening, her lips forming a thin line as if biting back a snarky reply. She meets my gaze, giving me an encouraging nod.

  “He’s married to my boyfriend’s sister.”

  He’s about to write this down, then stops, lifting his eyes to mine. “Mr. Jaskulski is married to Julia Prescott. Her brother is—”

  “Weston Bradford,” Sophia interjects.

  Detective Stocker draws in a long breath, looking from Sophia to me, then jots down Wes’ name. I’m not sure if he’s surprised Wes would date someone like me or if there’s a different reason for his reaction to this information.

  “So Mr. Jaskulski is your boyfriend’s brother-in-law.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t know that until a few days ago. I knew him in a different capacity.”

  “How?”

  “He was an English professor at my undergrad university in Upstate New York.”

  “Was he your professor?”

  “No. When we first met, I didn’t even realize he was a professor at my college.”

  “And when was th
is?”

  “I graduated six years ago this coming May, and we met my senior year.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “At a coffee shop a few blocks from campus.”

  “How would you describe your relationship with him if he wasn’t your professor?”

  I worry my bottom lip, fingering my Medusa pendant, drawing in her strength to talk about my relationship with Nick. “We started as two people who happened to frequent the same coffee shop. But at some point, we crossed the line to something else.”

  “Something other than friends?” Detective Stocker asks, a single brow arched.

  I swallow hard. “Yes.”

  He scratches something down on his pad, then returns his hardened stare to me. What I wouldn’t give for Detective Trager to ask these questions instead. “And was he married when you became something other than friends?”

  I look down, fidgeting with my hands, the same guilt that plagued me in the months following his assault returning with a vengeance. I should have put a stop to things between us the first time Nick tested the waters into more dangerous territory. When he’d asked me if I’d ever had an orgasm after I’d mentioned I didn’t feel like I was married due to the lack of intimacy in my marriage. His question had caught me off guard, a voice in my head screaming at me to retreat, to make up some excuse about needing to get to class.

  But the way he looked at me was thrilling, unlike the way anyone had ever peered at me before. Even Sawyer. He only looked at me like a means to an end. And that was how I felt. Like a piece of property he bartered for. Not someone he promised to love and cherish, as his vows stated.

  So instead of nipping the conversation in the bud, I humored him, a need to feel wanted and desired by someone burning inside me.

  Biggest mistake of my life.

  “It’s okay,” Detective Trager encourages in a gentle tone. “We’re all human. We all make mistakes. It’s imperative we understand the precise nature of your relationship with Mr. Jaskulski.”

  “Yes,” I answer firmly. “I knew he was married.”

  “And despite knowing he was already married, you slept with him?” Detective Stocker counters, his question seeming more like an accusation.

  “Bryant, I—” Detective Trager interjects.

  “My client never said she slept with him,” Sophia argues at the same time, preventing me from answering. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t put words into her mouth.”

  “Let me rephrase,” Detective Stocker says without apology. “Were you romantically involved?”

  I pinch my lips together, ruminating over a response. Our relationship is difficult to explain and probably even more difficult for someone to understand. But was it romantic? Maybe I thought so at the time. Now I see it for what it was. Insincere. Manipulative. Deceitful.

  “No. We were both married.”

  Detective Stocker looks up from his notes. “You were married, as well?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did your husband attend the same university?”

  “No. He was a pastor of a church in Virginia, so he stayed there while I completed my education.”

  “I see.” After making a few more notes, he sets down the pen, leaning back in his chair. “Would it be accurate to say you formed a…close relationship with Mr. Jaskulski during your time at school?”

  I look at Sophia for guidance, who nods.

  “Yes,” I answer firmly.

  “But you didn’t have an affair.”

  “No.”

  “Were you ever intimate with him?”

  “Not willingly.”

  He stares at me for several moments, an expression that’s a combination of arrogance and disbelief on his face.

  “Did Mr. Jaskulski rape you at college?” Detective Trager asks sympathetically.

  “He did.”

  “Do you have a copy of the police report of the incident?”

  “There isn’t one,” I reply, running my clammy hands over my jeans.

  “Did you go to the police?” Detective Stocker snips, his tone heavy with skepticism, at complete odds with the kind nature of Detective Trager’s questions. It’s like a perverse version of good cop-bad cop, one I sense is completely unintentional. Detective Stocker isn’t a bad cop. He’s just an asshole.

  “I did,” I answer, trying not to sound too defensive, as Sophia had instructed yesterday.

  “So you went to the police about this rape, yet they didn’t find your story believable enough to so much as file a report?”

  Sophia’s on her feet immediately, hands pressed against the table as she leans forward, eyes narrowed on the detective. “Detective Stocker, my client and I would appreciate it if you didn’t pass judgment over an incident that happened almost six years ago. If my client claims she was raped, she was raped. As Detective Trager can attest to, thanks to her extensive training, this kind of treatment is the precise reason many women don’t report sexual abuse.

  “My client has shown incredible strength in not only answering your questions today, but also when she first tried to seek justice. Her story was ignored, like so many other women’s stories are. Instead of promising to investigate the matter, the officer asked what she was wearing. How much she had to drink. If she’d done anything to make him think she’d wanted to have sex with him.

  “How would you feel if your daughter were sitting in this chair? Would you ask her these same questions? Or would you promise to do everything in your power to seek justice?”

  The detective opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, Detective Trager places her hand on his arm, stopping him.

  “My colleague and I apologize.” She gives me an encouraging smile. “I assure you. We’re not here to pass judgment.” Her eyes float back to Detective Stocker’s, her voice almost like a warning. “Just to get to the truth.”

  “Thank you.” Sophia retakes her seat, exuding nothing but confidence.

  “Why don’t we move to the present,” Detective Trager suggests. “I think we’ve established how Ms. Bennett and Mr. Jaskulski know each other.”

  “I agree,” Sophia states.

  “How did—” Detective Stocker begins, but Detective Trager interrupts, much to my relief.

  “When did you realize Mr. Jaskulski’s connection to your boyfriend?”

  “New Year’s Eve.”

  “And how long have you been dating Mr. Bradford?” she asks.

  “Technically only since October, but I’ve known him since June.”

  “In what capacity were you acquainted with Mr. Bradford before you started dating?”

  “He was a client. I’m an interior designer. But as we spent time together, we became closer.”

  “And in the past seven months, you didn’t realize who his brother-in-law was?” Detective Stocker cuts in. “Didn’t you hear him mention his name? If I heard someone I’d been dating refer to their brother-in-law and the name was the same as someone who’d assaulted me, I’d certainly question it.”

  I shrug. “I had no reason to. He goes by Nick, not Domenic. I figured it was short for Nicholas. And since Wes’ sister’s last name is Prescott, not Bradford, I assumed it was her married name. Instead, Julia insisted on keeping her birth mother’s last name, since she’s adopted.”

  “Prior to this, did Mr. Bradford know of your history with his brother-in-law?”

  “Not that it was him, but I told him of the assault.”

  “And he didn’t think to mention his brother-in-law’s name was the same as that of your abuser?”

  “He didn’t know, either.”

  “You never told him his name?” Detective Trager presses, brows furrowed.

  “Around campus, he went by Professor J. Or Jay to his friends. So I knew him as Jay. Trust me. I would have much preferred to learn this piece of information instead of looking up at the gala and being blindsided.”

  “And this gala was this past New Year’s Eve?” Detective Stocker inquires.
<
br />   “Yes.”

  “Did you share this information with Mr. Bradford?” Detective Trager asks.

  “No.”

  “Why not?” Detective Stocker presses.

  “I felt like Julia deserved to know the truth first. After all, she’s married to him.”

  “A reasonable explanation.” Detective Trager shoots Detective Stocker a look of reproach before turning her attention back to me. “What led you to The Mad Batter Friday afternoon?”

  “Julia mentioned she planned to head in for a few hours to get some paperwork done. I thought it would be a good opportunity to talk to her about her husband. Nick had said something the previous night that made me wonder if he’d assaulted her, too, so I wanted to ask her. Or, at the very least, warn her, I guess.” I chew on my bottom lip. “To be honest, I’m not quite sure what I was thinking at the time. Just that I needed to do something.”

  “What happened when you arrived?” she asks.

  “Julia wasn’t there.” I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. I reach for the water bottle in front of me, my hands shaking slightly.

  “How did you get inside?” Detective Stocker presses. “According to the police report, the bakery was closed.”

  “It was,” I respond after taking a long swallow of water. “The rear service door was unlocked. I knocked, but there was no answer. Since I noticed her car parked out back, I knew she had to be there, so I walked inside, calling her name. Instead, Jay… Nick was there.”

  “What happened next?”

  I take a moment, doing my best to unscramble my thoughts. Everything seemed to happen so fast, it felt like a dream.

  Or a nightmare.

  “He figured out I was there to tell Julia the truth.”

  “And how did he respond?”

  “He claimed he’d already told her. Or at least told her he’d slept with a former student at his college. Which, in his convoluted brain, is probably what he honestly believes. He tried to convince me he didn’t do anything I didn’t want, even if I refused to admit it to myself. I told him he was delusional to think I actually wanted him to assault me like he did.”

  “What was his reaction?” Detective Trager asks, fully engaged in the conversation, whereas Detective Stocker simply seems to write down anything that can paint me in a negative light.