Page 39 of All the Forbidden Things
Cal stands with his hands on his hips, surveying us. His chest moves up and down a little too rapidly, and I can totally empathise with the frustration he’s probably feeling at this moment.
“I was gonna call you this week and ask your advice. I planned on getting out, but I didn’t wanna leave the kids without knowing they’d be safe. I was going to ask you to speak to Aaron about going to the correct authorities.”
“You should’ve put your own safety first.”
“Yeah? Well, just like you, I’m not wired that way. And just like I know you’d always put Mel, Kenz, and me first, that’s exactly how I feel about Ollie and Amelia.”
He rolls his lips between his teeth and regards me for a long moment. “He pointed the gun at his kid.”
All of my bullshit and bravado leaves me so rapidly my head spins, and I feel sick, hot and cold all at once.
“He did what? No. Which . . . which one?” I start to cry again as I ask.
“The boy,” Cal tells me. “Carmen told him to get off you then the kid came out of the bedroom. That fucker picked up the gun and pointed it at his own kid.” Cal’s mouth twists and distorts as he tries to contain his emotions. “He pointed the gun at his kid and then he pointed it at you. That’s when Carmen put a bullet right through his brain.”
“Oh my God. Oh my God!” I cry. “Poor Ollie. Poor Ollie would’ve seen it all. I’m gonna be sick. Get me something . . . I’m gonna . . .”
Makenzie sticks a kidney-shaped bowl in front of me, and I heave. I don’t remember the last time I ate, so all that comes up is yellow bile. It burns my throat, and I cough, making me heave and gag again.
Mel rubs my back, Kenzie heaves right along with me, and I’ve no clue where Cal vanishes to.
I’ve spent three hours withtwo detectives from the LAPD, and I’m over it.
Aaron arrived about an hour before the police were due and talked me through what they would ask and told me to just give them as much detail as I could recall.
Thankfully because Aaron represents bands from both sides of the Atlantic, he’s passed the bar and can act on my behalf while I’m being questioned.
I thought I had nothing to hide, that I was being questioned as a witness, but once the interview started, I began to feel more likeIwasthe one who’d committed a crime. One of the detectives is okay, an older man called Schuster. The younger one, though—Foster—is a total dick.
Mel and Kenzie have been allowed to stay with me as I’ve recounted the events of Saturday night. And despite my unease, I’m able to recall most of what happened and hopefully give fairly accurate answers.
“Can you confirm for us what you were wearing on the night of the attack?” Foster asks.
Shocked at his question, I open my mouth to ask why he needs to know when Aaron interrupts.
“Can I ask the relevance of this question?”
“Yeah, I’d like to know what the fuck this has to do with anything too,” Makenzie questions.
What. The. Actual. Fuck. Surely, they don’t think I’d led Michael Bosworth on in any way? That what happened is somehow my fault?
“Can you tell us what Michael Bosworth was wearing that night? What about Carmen? What relevance does Billie’s attire have on the case?” Mel asks.
The detectives look at each other and then Foster looks back at me. “Mrs Bosworth claims you were wearing a pair of sleep shorts—”
“I was. I was ready for bed,” I snap. “As far as I was aware, the Bosworth's were out for the evening. I’d just put the children to bed when I heard Michael come home. Like I said, he was drunk, he dropped his keys, then knocked something over, and I heard him slurring as he argued with his wife on the phone. Their arguments tend to get violent when alcohol’s involved. So, before Carmen returned and it all kicked off like it has in the past, I woke Oliver and made him walk while I carried Amelia to my bedroom because they get scared when their parents fight. I’ve explained all of this.”
The room’s silent for a second. The detective's tone and line of questioning has caused the bubble of anger that is brewing in my belly to become a boiling cauldron. “What doyouwear to bed, Detective Foster? You wear pyjamas or sleep in your boxers?”
“Well, I-I d—”
“If someone broke into your house in the middle of the night, attacked you, beat you, held a gun at your head, tried to rip your nipple off with their teeth as they attempted to push their fingers inside you, would it have any relevance to what you’d gone to bed wearing? Would it be your fault for wearing whatever the fuck you felt comfortable in while in what you considered the privacy and relative safety of your own fucking home?” My voice trembles and gets louder with each word.
The door opens and Cal comes through it. I’d questioned Mel earlier regarding his whereabouts, but she’d been a little evasive and told me he had shit to do.
That shit obviously involved hovering outside my hospital door.
“I think we’re done here,” he tells Foster, whose eyes widen as he takes in Cal.
