40. Robert
forty
Robert
It took about two weeks for Alan, one of my lawyers, to have any time to properly talk to me about Delia’s predicament, but when he finally did, I wasn’t happy with what he had to say.
I sat on the edge of my desk, the phone pressed to my ear, staring out at nothing. The skyline of Seattle stretched beyond the floor-to-ceiling window, snow clouds looming over the city like a warning.
Alan had been droning on in my ear, reciting legalese and processes I hadn’t had the patience for at the time. What I needed were straight answers from him.
“Robert, I’ll need to pull all the files. That’ll take time,” Alan had said calmly. Too calmly.
“Time?” I snapped, rubbing my temples. “She doesn’t have time, Alan. This is her career. Her future.”
“I understand, but—"
“If you understood, you’d have been prioritizing your paycheck,” I barked, gripping the phone tighter, feeling the tension in my forearm. “I needed you to make it happen, and I don’t have time for you to fuck around, driving up your hourly, Alan!”
There had been a pause. Alan had sighed and said, “Look, Rob. I didn’t want to say this until I knew for sure, but there’s no way this is a fluke.”
My heart had stilled. My breathing had turned ragged, and I had trouble slowing down the world so that I could think straight. “What do you mean?” I had asked.
He chuckled dryly, the laugh of a man who had seen the worst in people and had no time for naivete. “You’re telling me only her videos were deleted and no one else’s? Someone did this on purpose. And I’m thinking someone pretty high up, considering the protocols most clinics have. We’ll need evidence.”
I’d cleared my throat. “What kind of evidence?”
“Surveillance, a log of who had access to those videos. Let me do some digging. I’ll start by contacting the clinic and reviewing their systems. But yes, all that might take time.”
I had muttered a quick thanks and hung up before Alan could say another word.
But now, a week later, I was looking at two emails in my inbox. One was an email from the security station at the library where my classes were held. The other was an email from Alan. Both had attachments, and my gut twisted looking at them like they were bombs with live wires.
I chose to open the email from the library. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe I thought it was easier dealing with my own impending doom than Delia’s. I leaned over the desk, watching the grainy black-and-white feed begin to play.
The first minute was nothing. Just a few cars coming and going on the street beyond the parking lot. I fast-forwarded, tapping my fingers impatiently on the desk.
I watched footage of classes filing out and students and instructors alike returning to their cars. I went through so much that my eyes felt bleary and pained. I rubbed my head and kept going.
And then I saw it. A class filing out, but the woman who had reported the harassment stayed behind, her arms wrapped around herself as she waited near the door.
The instructor came out, their back against the camera, and it was only a few moments, a few exchanges, before her back was up against a wall and she turned her face away.
The instructor turned slightly, and I got so close to the screen that my nose almost touched it, and then his head gave a furtive glance to the camera, though I couldn’t tell if he knew it was there.
I froze. My hand stilled on the trackpad as I stared at the screen.
Jeremy.
My chest tightened, and I replayed the segment just to make sure I wasn’t seeing things. There he was, plain as day. Jeremy, someone who I had considered my best friend for nearly a decade, pinning a woman from my class to the wall, a woman who’d stayed behind to talk to him. What could she have been asking? For pointers? And he’d taken advantage of them being alone.
My blood ran ice cold. I rubbed a hand down my face, my heart pounding.
The realization hit like acid in my veins. Why the woman hadn’t come forward about who was harassing her, why she’d been so afraid.
Because it was Jeremy.
He was my friend. Everyone knew he was my best friend. How could they feel safe coming forward if they thought that I might try to protect him?
How long had he been doing this? How long had he been hiding this side of himself from me? Had I been so blinded by our history that I hadn’t seen the truth staring me in the face?
I thought back to all the signs I missed: the way he’d asked about teaching, pretending to be concerned about Delia’s safety, and that day we’d eaten together. I’d practically fucking sold her out to him. That day, he’d offered to speak to the woman who’d disclosed. I’d thought it was weird, but typically weird the way Jeremy usually was – thinking his position as a therapist makes him uniquely qualified to talk to everyone – but I hadn’t realized it was a veiled threat.
I slammed my fist on the desk, the sharp pain jolting through my knuckles grounding me. My laptop shifted, and I stared at the screen, at Jeremy’s face frozen in time.
You son of a bitch. I’ll fucking kill you.
For a moment, I didn’t know what to do. Part of me wanted to drive to his office, grab him by the collar, and demand answers.
This was my fault. No matter what Jeremy had done, I had let him get this close to the safety and lives of tens of women in my care.
I sat there in the silence of my office, the footage still playing on a loop in the background. Jeremy’s face stared back at me, a constant reminder of my betrayal.
No, not mine. His betrayal.
I knew I had to do something. I just wasn’t sure I was ready for the fallout. No matter what, first things first, I needed to warn Delia. No woman whom he felt he was above was safe, especially not her.
I imagined the way he’d looked at the bar, holding tightly to her wrist while her face contorted. The poor thing had been afraid, and I still hadn’t seen it.
But first, I needed to open the other email.