Page 3 of Fetch

“It was outside. I went next door to use the bathroom. I’m sorry,” I cry.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” She whips out her phone. “I’m calling the cops, and then I’m going to help you sue the fuck out of this place.”

I grab her hands. “No. Please. No cops. I just want to go home.”

She arches an eyebrow at me. “Roxy, you were assaulted. That guy is still out there. We have to tell someone.”

Fuck. I don’t want any more attention on me. I can’t take another scandal. “Fine. You can call them after we leave. Tell them you saw it but that you don’t know who it was.”

She nods. “Where did he touch you?”

I shake my head again. “Doesn’t matter. The back door opened, and I ran inside as fast as I could.”

“Everything okay?” Coast interrupts from seemingly out of nowhere. “You both look upset.”

Juniper rolls her eyes and drapes an arm around me. “We’re fine. She’s just got food poisoning. Stay away from the sloppy joes, boys.”

“Thank you,” I whisper as we leave Milo and Coast standing there dumbfounded.

It took me twenty minutes to convince Juniper that I was fine being alone in my apartment. After I showed her my pistol, she conceded. This is Lavender Heights. Every single woman living alone should have one.

As I stand under the piping hot water of my shower, scrubbing my skin raw with a loofa filled with peach bodywash, I become angrier.I’m angry with myself.I know better than to wander around in the dark alone on a Friday night in that part of town.

What the fuck was I thinking?

I’m just grateful to whoever used that back door to leave. They don’t even know how close I was to… Fuck. I pinch my eyes shut and try and block it out. I’m fine. I’m okay. I’m safe now. Remembering the exercises my therapist taught me, I exhale a deep breath and count to ten. Another deep breath in through my nose. And out. And repeat.

The muscles between my shoulder blades begin to loosen the longer I do this. Satisfied that I’ve managed to stave off another full-blown panic attack, I turn off the water and step out to dry off.

I slip into a pair of fuzzy sweats, pour a glass of whiskey, and melt into my couch. I’m tired but still on edge. I know I won’t be able to sleep, so why bother? I click on the TV and channel surf until I stumble on an old rom-com. Within minutes, I relax even more. Until my phone pings three times in a row.

I look down to see a string of texts from Juniper.

Have you seen this? What the fuck is going on at Joystick tonight? Girl, this is all over the fucking news.

My fingers tremble, hovering over the link she sent me. I try to swallow, but my mouth is dry. My nerves are shot. I don’t know how much more I can take right now.

She texts again.

Roxy??? Is this the guy?

Fuck. I click on the link, and all the blood rushes to my feet. Thank fuck I’m sitting down. The first line reads:Man jumps to his death at popular arcade bar, Joystick, tonight. Leaves behind a note confessing to sexual assault.

I sit forward, my heart racing. What the fuck? There’s no way. That creep didn’t strike me as the remorseful type.

I text her back.

I don’t know. They haven’t released his photo yet.

Typing bubbles appear, disappear, then reappear again.

It has to be. Shit. Are you okay?

I don’t know what to feel. Or think. I take a sip of my whiskey and read through the article again. The reporter states that no onlookers recalled seeing the man inside. And the bar had zero record of him being on the guest list. It must be him. He must have weaseled his way inside after I ran through the back door.

But for what purpose? I find it hard to believe he killed himself just moments after I got away from him. A shiver snakes up my back. It just doesn’t add up. And I hate that I’m a part of it.

I text her back.

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