Page 112 of The Tattered Gloves
“But his voice?” Addy asked. “Or the fact that he is from D.C.?”
“A lawyer could easily dismiss that. What I need from you, Willow… and I know this will be hard, but I need for you to think back to that night. Remember every detail, and find something to nail this bastard.”
What he was asking was a lot.
Sure, I’d thought about that night every day since it’d happened. But he was asking me to relive it.
“It’s okay,” Allison assured me. “You can do it.”
Another tear fell down my cheek, dripping off my chin to land on the tip of my glove. I’d been crying that night, too, when I found these ruby-red gloves, hidden away in some forgotten corner of my room.
“I remembered the pain and the fear… the sheer sense of loss as he took and took and…” Then, I suddenly remembered. “The scars.”
“Scars?” Sheriff Carter asked.
I swallowed the lump in my throat as I found my words. “He… I remember him saying something about coming from a bad home, too, and how much alike we really were.”
And then the full memory came roaring back with a vengeance.
“He had scars on his chest and back, like he’d been beaten with something… a rope or a whip maybe. I never saw them, but I felt them. Big, long, jagged scars that covered nearly every inch.”
My body shuddered from the memory.
“Thank you, Willow,” the sheriff said softly.
Several warm hands fell on my shoulders.
“We’ll get him,” he promised.
It was a promise he kept.
After several long days, Jonathan Lee was charged with rape without the chance of bail. When news got out about his arrest, the town went into chaos over discovering their children had been in the presence of a rapist. Thankfully, my name was kept out of it. All of it.
An impossible feat in a town filled with gossip.
But that was a word I was starting to doubt.
The word impossible.
Because, from where I was standing, it seemed anything was possible if you’re brave enough to try.
AS THE END of January came around, we tried to shift our focus back to something resembling normalcy. Page Turners had brought in record breaking profits and to celebrate, we threw a party and invited the whole town.
Sam made sure to send a special invite to his father.
But the more I tried to get back into the swing of things, the less I felt in touch with reality.
I’d done it.
I’d vanquished my mortal enemy; so why did I feel like I was walking through life like some half-dead zombie?
My lackluster attitude must not have gone unnoticed. As soon as we locked up the doors the night of the party, Sam was tugging at my hand, demanding we go for a drive.
“A drive?” I asked. “Since when do we drive?”
“I can drive,” he stated proudly.
“I know you can,” I replied, having seen him do so in the past. “But we usually just walk everywhere.”
