State of Grace (17 page)

Detective Sanchez met her gaze and smiled kindly. “No, Adelle, it wasn't your fault. This was not, I repeat, not, your fault.” She paused. “I know this is hard. Can you tell me what happened next?”

Adelle closed her eyes and nodded her head slowly. The muscles in her jaw jumped. “He threw me down on the ground.”

“Face up or face down?”

“Down at first, and then he flipped me over.”

“And then he got on top of me and he pushed the knife against my throat and told me to be quiet. And then he hit me. He punched me in the mouth. And then he brought his fist back and hit me in the side of the head.” She swallowed. “He kept telling me not to make a sound, or he'd kill me. Then he cut my tights with his knife and unzipped his pants.”

Detective Sanchez pointed to the evidence bags on the counter. “Are those your clothes? Were those what you were wearing?” She consulted a sheet of paper with writing on it. “It says here you were wearing a long, denim skirt, tights, a T-shirt, and a heavy, multicolored sweater. Is that right?”

Adelle looked at the clear plastic bags that contained the clothes she had been wearing. She looked like she wanted to throw up. “Yes.”

Images of Grace's body—either of what I imagined happened to her or that she had shared with me—popped into my head. I groaned softly and shifted uncomfortably in my seat.

“I know this is hard, Adelle,” Detective Sanchez said. “Did you see his face?” She looked again at the paper in her hand. “It says here that he was a white male, early twenties, tall, muscular with dark hair and a scratchy voice. Is that right?”

Adelle closed her good eye and jerked her head in a quick nod. “He was wearing dark clothes. I couldn't see much of his face. It was so dark. I could hear people talking nearby, you know? They were so close. I wanted to yell out, but he would have killed me. I know he would have.”

“You did what you had to do to survive.” The detective's voice hardened. “You're
alive
. That's what's important.”

Adelle nodded tightly, but didn't look up from her lap.

Detective Sanchez reviewed her notes and then returned her attention to Adelle, who was now staring at the wall opposite her. “What happened after the rape?” Detective Sanchez waited for several seconds before clearing her throat. “Adelle?”

“He lay on top of me for a little while,” she said numbly. “I kept thinking any minute someone would walk by. . . or hear him panting. But they didn't. Then he wiped himself off with the bottom of my skirt, zipped up his pants, and told me that because I was such a good girl, he would let me live. After he left, I managed to crawl over to the front of the library and some girls who were smoking took me inside and they called the police.”

Detective Sanchez scribbled in her notebook.

“What do I do?” Adelle asked suddenly, her voice cracking with fear. It was the first emotion she had expressed since the interview had begun. “What if he knows who I am? What if he figures out where I live?”

Sanchez put down her pen, stood, and moved to where Adelle sat. “We're going to do everything we can to catch him. And until then, there are things you can do to protect yourself.” She looked over at me. “First, you two can talk to your landlord about changing the locks and putting additional locks on your windows.” She returned
her attention to Adelle.

“You might want to start carrying mace with you. Do you have a dog?”

Adelle shook her head.

“That might be something to think about. Rapists are often opportunists. Dogs are deterrents. We also offer self-defense courses. Maybe you and your friend could take one of those. You were attacked, Adelle, but you don't have to be a victim. You can be a survivor.” She paused and reached out as if to touch Adelle, but then didn't. “There is no right or wrong reaction to something like this, but it's important to get help. I have a rape counselor outside who is going to talk to you, give you some information, and a list of numbers to call if you need to. You're not in this alone. There are people here to help you through this.” She glanced at me. “You have friends who will help you and I promise you, we will do everything we can to catch this guy.”

“He needs to be punished.”

The voice was low with barely contained anger. I jerked my head toward Adelle. She was again staring blankly at the wall as the detective continued to talk. She hadn't spoken a word.

“He needs to be punished,”
the voice repeated.

I swallowed convulsively, my heart racing. I knew the voice. I knew it better than my own. It was Grace.

“We'll catch this guy.” Detective Sanchez promised again. She looked from Adelle to me and it was as if she, too, had heard Grace.
“We'll find him and he will be punished.”

Chapter 15

It was late by the time Adelle and I arrived home. The next day, we called the landlord about installing additional locks on the doors and windows. A middle-aged man with two girls of his own, he was sympathetic to what Adelle had experienced, and did it immediately. Still, neither of us felt safe and we struggled with what had happened in different ways.

I hadn't shared the details of my childhood experience with Adelle. Roger was still the only person outside of Edenbridge that I'd told and I continued to regret my drunken confession. I considered telling her, but something held me back. And, to be honest, I was dealing with issues of my own. What had happened to Adelle that night on campus brought back all the anxiety, fear, and paranoia I had experienced after Grace's murder. It also brought back Grace. I felt her more often now in the back of my head, watching and listening. Whenever the conversation turned to progress on Adelle's case, I could sense a sharpening of her interest.

Her presence made me feel fragile and vulnerable. The insomnia returned. And on those nights in which I
was
actually able to sleep, my dreams were troubled and violent. The days were no better. When I forced myself to leave the apartment to go to classes, every shadow, every bush harbored murderers and rapists. Locked inside the safety of my home was the only place where I was able to relax, and even that was a broad interpretation of the word because I had also begun to fear the dangers inside my home.

Ever since Grace's murder, all I could think about was germs. I washed my hands several times each day and was careful about touching anything that could be contaminated. But the night of Adelle's rape, what had been a concern with germs erupted into a
full-time job. We had come straight home from the hospital and Adelle had showered while I fixed drinks. As I stood in the kitchen listening to the shower running, I began to imagine what was being washed from her body. I imagined the cloudy white residue of her rapist's semen running down her legs, onto her feet, and swirling down the drain. The thought made me feel physically ill and a part of me wanted to run into the bathroom and ask her to stop—or, at least, to disinfect the tub when she was finished. But, even as I thought that, my face flushed with shame for thinking such a thing when my friend had just had her life turned upside down. I forced myself to push the images aside. But as the night progressed, I found myself obsessing about what was in my shower—to the point that I had trouble concentrating on our stilted conversation. I was barely able to wait until Adelle was in bed before I pulled on kitchen gloves and began to scrub the tub with Comet.

I hoped that over time, these fears would go away. But if anything, they became more extreme. I began to worry about what diseases or germs were being brought into the apartment by Adelle, by visitors, and by me. The thought of eating food that had been prepared by someone else made me feel so ill that I only ate food I fixed myself. No more lunches from the cafeteria or sandwiches at The Coffee House. I was sure that hair or germs were in everything I ate.

Roger was the first to notice—or, at least, the first to say anything. He came over after I had missed several classes. I responded to his knock by securing the chain on the door and then opening it just enough to see who was outside.

“It's me,” he said irritably. “Let me in.”

I closed the door, removed the chain, and then opened the door fully. His gaze took in my ratty track sweats, T-shirt, and bunny slippers.

“Where have you been? You realize you've missed class three times this week and—”

“Could you take off your shoes?” I interrupted. “They've been outside.”

He glanced down at his feet, sighed, and then slipped off his loafers.

“Birdie, I'm starting to get a little worried about you.” He never used my childhood nickname. “You're missing classes. You never leave the apartment and now you're . . .” He gestured at my outfit. “I don't know what you're doing.”

He walked past me into the living room where I had been lying on the couch watching hour six of a twelve-hour
L.A. Law
marathon on Lifetime. The coffee table was littered with Diet Coke cans, the remnants of my scrambled egg breakfast, half of a turkey sandwich, and an empty potato chip bag. I stood in the doorway, my arms crossed.

“Rebecca, talk to me. You haven't been the same since Adelle's—” he paused and then amended his statement “—since what happened to Adelle.”

I sniffed and wiped at my nose. “I have the flu.”

“No, you don't,” he said sharply. “That's a lie. You're becoming a, I don't know, a recluse and I think you need help.” He gestured at the television. “I mean, you're watching Lifetime, for god's sake. How much worse can it be?”

“That doesn't mean anything,” I snapped.

“Doesn't it?” He tipped his head to the side. “Seriously, and be honest, how many made for television movies with Melissa Gilbert have you watched this week?”

I blushed.

“Exactly,” he said. “I think this thing with Adelle brought up a lot of suppressed issues for you. Things from when you were a kid. And rather than dealing with them, you're, well—” he spread his arms wide “—you're doing this.”

“I'm fine,” I said, angry that he had brought up my drunken confession.

“I don't believe you.” He picked up the remote and turned off the television. “I've talked to Adelle. She said you're up all night, that you're skipping classes, that you're spraying everything down with Clorox. What's that about?”

I shrugged.

“Sweetie, you need help,” he said. “You can't keep up like this. You look like hell warmed over and I think you need to talk to someone.”

“I don't.”

“You do and you will. Today. I've made an appointment for you at the mental health center. It's free.”

“I'm not going,” I said firmly. “Thank you, but I don't believe in psychiatry and I don't want to talk to anyone about this. I can handle it on my own.”

Roger crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. “No. I don't think you can. And if you don't agree to do this, I'm going to call your mother and tell her exactly what has happened and what I think is going on. I probably should do that anyway.”

Following my parents divorce, my mother had fully come into her own. She cut and dyed her hair, began to take art lessons, and started seeing a psychologist. At first, my sister Tara and I were shocked.

“There's nothing wrong with it.” Her tone had been defiant. “In fact, Birdie, I think you would benefit from it, too.”

“I don't need therapy.”

“There aren't . . . things you want to talk about?”

“I don't want to talk about anything,” I said. “All I want to do is get on with my life.”

It had become a point of contention—so much so that I had taken to letting my mother's calls go to the machine. Given how anxious she was to have me see someone, the last thing I needed was Roger to contact her with his concerns.

“Roger,” I said quickly. “Please don't do that.”

“If that's what has to happen, then I will,” he said simply. “Your choice.”

Laura, the therapist, was much younger than I had anticipated—and much more pleasant.

“I appreciate you seeing me,” I said as I settled into the seat across from her. “But I need to be honest with you. I didn't want to come here and I don't think I really need your help.”

“Okay.” She pushed an errant lock of dark hair behind her ear
and studied my face. “So, then, why are you here?”

I sighed. “I'm here because I didn't really have much of a choice in the matter. I know that sounds defensive, but my friend kind of . . . bullied me into coming.”

“Ummm,” Laura said. “And how did your friend do that? Or maybe I should ask
why
did your friend do that?”

“He threatened to tell my mother about some of the things I've been doing that seem a little . . . weird.”

Laura nodded and pushed her glasses up on the top of her head.

“Weird, how?” she asked and then quickly added, “Not that you have to tell me, though it wouldn't hurt anything.”

I looked at her and smiled knowingly. “I know what you're doing.” I waved my index finger. “You're trying to get me to talk by pretending not to care if I talk.”

Laura laughed and held up her hands. “You caught me, red-handed. Reverse psychology.”

I smiled, sincerely this time. “I didn't expect you to give up so easily.”

Laura shrugged. “You've already made up your mind. I can only offer you help if you want it. If you don't, well, then I can't force you to talk about what's going on. I
will
tell you, though, that if your friend went to these lengths to get you to come, he's concerned. And maybe you should look at what's going on that causes that concern. But that's your business.”

This was not what I had expected.

“So, you can leave right now or you can stay and talk for the rest of your—” she glanced down at the gold and silver watch on her wrist “—forty-eight minutes. It's your decision. I do have to ask you a question before you go though—and I need you to answer honestly.”

“Okay.”

“Do I or your friends have any reason to worry that you are a danger to yourself or others?”

I felt my eyes widen and I recoiled in horror. “Oh my god, no,” I said quickly. “I would never hurt anyone else. And I'm not going to kill myself or anything. I'm just . . . sad. I'm not dangerous.”

“Okay.” Laura scribbled something on the piece of paper in front of her. “Not knowing anything about you, I have to take you at your word.”

She slid the paper into the file on her lap and then placed the folder on the small table to her right. With a smile, she leaned back in her chair expectantly. “So, what would you like to do with your remaining—” she glanced again at her watch “—forty-six minutes?”

“Get out of here,”
Grace's voice whispered. The command was like a tickle at the back of my brain and it took everything I had to resist the urge to get up and run out of the room. Laura knew what to look for. She could—and would—sense that something was wrong with me if I spent too much time here.

“I probably should go home,” I said. “I don't want to waste your time.”

Laura laughed. “It's not a waste of my time. I have someone coming in after you, so I have to be here regardless. I have to tell you, though, I admire you for coming in today. I have a friend who is agoraphobic and she has to force herself to leave the house. She's a certified recluse. If I want to see her, I have to go there.”

I wrinkled my face.

“I'm not agoraphobic. I just don't like leaving my house. I had some things happen when I was a kid . . . a friend of mine was murdered. And then my friend Adelle was just raped on campus and it just . . . brought up some issues, you know? That's all. But that's normal. That's not agoraphobia.”

Laura smiled kindly. “The world can be a scary place. There are a lot of people out there who aren't so nice. How old were you when your friend was murdered?” She must have seen something on my face because she held up her hands in a defenseless gesture. “Not for the file. You've made it clear you don't want therapy.”

“I was eleven,” I said. I felt Grace's anxiety but continued. “She was one of my two best friends.”

Laura shook her head. “Poor girl. Did they ever catch the man who did it?”

“No,” I said. “They had a couple of suspects, but no one they could ever pin it on.”

“That has got to be kind of scary for you,” Laura said. “To know that this man is still out there and then after what happened to your friend on campus—I can understand being apprehensive about going out. As women, we have to be extra cautious.”

I nodded. “Adelle is taking a self-defense class.”

“That's your friend who was attacked.”

“My roommate, yeah. They still haven't caught the guy who did that either. I mean, he could be anyone. He could be the guy sitting next to me in class. He could be the guy who checked me in today. He could be . . . anyone.”

Laura nodded.

“Is that what scares you—that the men who did these things to your friends are out there running around free? Looking for other victims?”

“Partially.” I looked past her at the bookshelves, then said, “But it's more than that. I'm scared, yes. But, I'm also, I don't know what it is. And I'm not sure I could survive something like that. Grace didn't.”

Laura leaned forward. “And Grace was your childhood friend?”

I felt the tingle of Grace shifting her energy. As much as she wanted me to leave before I said too much, I could tell she was also interested in the conversation.

“Of course, you know Grace was just a girl,” Laura continued. “Her attacker was a lot stronger than she was. You're a grown woman. There are things you can do to defend yourself.”

“I know. I just . . .” I fell silent and Laura sat, watching me, waiting for whatever I was going to say next. Grace too, was waiting.
“Don't do it,”
she warned.
“She will think you're crazy.”

Despite her concerns, or perhaps because of them, I swallowed, took several calming breaths, and forced myself to speak. “I found her. I found Grace. At our tree house. In the woods. I found her body.”

“Oh, Rebecca.” Laura's voice was kind. “It makes perfect sense, then, why what happened to Adelle has affected you to this extent. Did you, after you found Grace, did you go see anyone? A professional?”

I shook my head. “My mother wanted to take me to see someone, but my father thought it was a waste of money. He thought psychiatry was a load of crap that only fools buy into.” I glanced up. “Sorry.”