Page 51 of Every Broken Piece
“It’s up to you, Tess,” Hardwick says.
If I say I’m not up to it, that my head is pounding and I’m tired, Gabe will send her away, but she’ll keep coming back. I need to get this over with so I never have to speak to her again.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Gabe says softly, his focus entirely on me. “I’ll stay right here if that’s what you want.”
I nod because I don’t want to be alone with the police and while I’m angry at Gabe, his presence is reassuring. I know he’ll protect me. He won’t let the police take me away.
Maybe it’s not the detective I need to worry about breeching the walls I’ve erected over the years. Maybe it’s Gabriel Strong.
Detective Hardwick settles in, pen poised above paper. “Why don’t you walk me through that night, Tess. What time did you arrive at the bar?”
“I don’t remember.” That’s the god’s honest truth. I don’t remember anything about that night. My last memory is ofstanding in front of my closet and looking through my dresses, trying to decide what to wear. My next memory is waking up in the emergency room, my head feeling like it was in a vice as doctors and nurses and EMT’s hustled around me, voices urgent and concerned.
“You have no memory of that night at all?” Her tone gives nothing of her thoughts away.
“The doctor said I may never remember.”
Her pen flies across her notebook and I don’t like not knowing what she’s writing.
“That’s okay,” she says. “The bar has fairly decent security cameras so we can see a lot of what happened that night.” She digs in her bag again and pulls out a grainy picture that I’m assuming is from the security cameras she mentioned. She holds it out to me. My hand shakes as I take it and stare at the image of a man in a baseball cap, jeans and a white t-shirt. His head is angled away from the camera so I can’t fully see his facial features. The photo is just of him, no one else nearby, so I can’t compare him to other people to gauge how tall he is. He looks like an average man. Not like someone who follows a defenseless woman into a dark hallway and beats her almost to death.
A shudder runs through me.
Gabe places a hand on my knee. I’m not going to lie, his touch centers me, settling the rage inside.
“Does he look familiar?” the detective asks.
I shake my head because my mouth is suddenly dry. It’s almost like a locked part of my brain remembers this guy, but the door won’t open to let me fully recall. I’m grateful for that because I don’t want to remember. I don’t need to when the man’s touch is literally imprinted all over my body.
“You’ve never seen him before?” she asks.
“No.”
“He’s not a former boyfriend? Lover?”
I drop the picture like it’s singed me and wipe my hand on the chair cushion. Blindly I reach for Gabe’s hand and it’s there, his strength folding around mine. “No. I don’t... I don’t have any former boyfriends.” And certainly no former lovers, but I’m not about to announce that in front of Gabe and a police officer.
I can’t stop looking at the picture lying face up on my knees. Detective Hardwick didn’t say this was the man who attacked me, but I know he is. I know without knowing. Ifeelthe panic he caused, the terror and helplessness.
“Do you have any idea why he targeted you?”
My breath is coming fast and shallow.
“Tess.” Gabe drags my chair around to face him, the sound of the legs scraping the floor making me wince. The picture flutters off my lap, landing facedown on the floor. His warm, strong hands cup my cheeks. “Look at me, Tess.”
I focus on his blue eyes behind the lenses of his glasses.
“Breathe, Spitfire. Breathe in, one, two, three, four, five. Hold it, one, two, three, four, five. Breathe out, one, two, three, four, five.” He repeats this a few more times, while I concentrate on his voice. I follow his instructions until my vision isn’t swimming, and my heart has slowed to a less frantic beat, and I’m lost in those twin pools of blue.
“I’m sorry to bring up some bad memories," the detective says. "I know this is difficult. We want to catch this man as much as you. Anything you can remember will help.”
“That’s the problem,” I say. “I can’t remember anything.” I don’t remember what his voice sounds like but it’s probably the same voice that spoke to me on the phone a few weeks before.
Stupid,stupid. I should’ve known he wouldn’t go away. I should’ve run when I could. I definitely should’ve never gone out to the bar with my friends. Now he knows who my friends are. Now he knows my weakness.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been confronted, but this is the first time I’ve been attacked.
To say I’m frightened is a vast understatement. I’m terrified. But I also don’t trust the police to solve this problem for me. A lifetime of being let down by cops telling me they want to help and then doing the opposite taught me that I can only trust myself.
