18. Anna
ANNA
LAST NOVEMBER
I’ve been sitting in the police station for the past three hours, and it’s clear I’m not a priority.
Not surprising. When you live in a major city, you can expect violent crimes to be far more prevalent and a greater concern.
Dealing with the girl whose ex-boyfriend is harassing her isn’t exactly on the top of anyone’s to-do list when there’s also been a gang-related homicide, some kind of drug bust, and a fight that’s just broken out in the waiting area.
Officer Williams eventually returns to the room I’ve been placed in, and I can’t help but notice a change in his demeanor.
When I first spoke with him, he didn’t seem to take my story very seriously.
If anything, he was borderline flippant, rolling a coin through his fingers and actually yawning as I recalled what happened to my dorm room. Now, he’s stern, edging on pissed.
“What did you hope to get by coming here today?”
The question catches me off guard.
I already told him this when I first came in, but I reiterate, “I want to discuss the possibility of getting a restraining order. I went to the courts, but after telling them everything, they recommended I speak with the police first.”
I can’t afford to get a lawyer, so I don’t know the first thing about how to handle this on my own, but I know enough that I don’t need representation to get an order of protection. If the police see Sebastian as a threat, they themselves can contact a judge who can grant them the order.
In the past two weeks since my dorm was ransacked, tires on my car have been slashed, anonymous calls had been made to my work repeatedly asking for me, only to hang up when I answered, and multiple one-star reviews had been left online for the restaurant, singling me out as the problem.
My manager knew it was bullshit and tried defending me, but the higher-ups weren’t interested.
I was a liability to their reputation, and they were all too happy to use Sebastian’s spamming as an excuse to let me go, claiming I was “abusing company policy by taking too many personal phone calls.”
Thanks to my now ex-manager willing to testify on my behalf, I thought I had a pretty good case for harassment. Between him and the two reports I already filed for destruction of private property, it seemed like a good start, at least.
Looking at Officer Williams, however, gives me pause.
“Do you know it’s illegal to file a false police report?” Yeah, that’s not a question. He’s glaring at me like I just kicked a puppy.
“Yes,” I say slowly. “I’m aware, and I haven’t—”
“Does your ex-boyfriend have a key to your dorm room?”
“No… Maybe. I’m not sure,” I admit. I had taken the spare Sebastian made for himself with me before I broke things off, knowing he would use it to retaliate. But now, thinking about it, that may not have been the only copy he had.
“We’ve been looking into both of your reports, and let’s just say there are some inconsistencies.
” He opens the folder in front of him and begins going over the details like he’s reading a rap sheet.
“Despite the room clearly being a mess, it’s impossible to ignore the fact that anything of value was left intact.
Expensive clothes, television, laptop, tablet, all in perfect condition. ”
I want to argue his definition of “value,” because, unlike my mom’s music box, those things could be replaced. Sentiment couldn’t.
But Officer Williams isn’t done. “There also wasn’t any sign of forced entry. Whoever entered your room would have needed a key. And in regards to your car, we actually have footage from the store across the street that caught the vandalism. You know what we found? Not your ex.”
He slaps a picture down on the table and slides it over to me, showing a somewhat grainy image of my vehicle with someone crouching over the rear tire wielding something in their hand that I can assume is a knife.
And he’s right.
The person in the screen capture isn’t Sebastian. It’s a woman.
Her head is down so you can’t see her face, but long dark hair spills out from the hood drawn over her head.
“Recognize the sweater?” Williams asks. He doesn’t wait for my answer, showing me another photograph that must have been taken for the report in my dorm room. “Looks an awful lot like this, does it not?”
He taps on the long, hooded gray cardigan Sebastian bought me in Italy…
And again, he’s right. The design is unmistakable.
“You know what I see here? A scorned woman who’s pissed off that she got dumped and is trying to get back at him by making accusations,” he spits out.
“I’d like to say it’s uncommon, but I’ve seen far too many women like you.
Ones who think they’re entitled and believe their looks will get them whatever they want.
And when they don’t get their way, they ruin good men’s lives, thinking they’ll never be held accountable. ”
Is he kidding?
It’s easy to see that the woman pictured isn’t me. Sure, the length of the cardigan comes down to the knees, concealing the person’s body, but her build is undeniably smaller than mine. Both thinner and shorter.
But he doesn’t want to hear me out. He’s already made up his mind.
Just when I think he can’t go dropping any more anvils on me, Williams adds, “Just a heads-up, your ex already contacted us and the courts. You should be expecting a visit from the sheriff’s office.”
“What? Why?”
“To issue the restraining order he’s petitioned against you.”
“ On what grounds?”
“Just because you delete text messages on your phone doesn’t mean we can’t recover them, Miss Carson.
Even before we got the records from the cell phone company, it was clear that you gave us tampered evidence when comparing your side of the conversation to the one that Mr. Chadwick’s phone provided.
” New papers are slid in front of me, and that anvil may as well be a building, because I can’t breathe under the weight of what I’m seeing.
Sebastian’s side of the conversation is the exact same, but where I had been refusing to respond, my side shows text message after text message after text message, each one worse than the last.
Me:
You don’t get to do this.
Me:
You don’t get to just walk away and then flaunt your latest slut in front of me at the frat party.
Me:
Pull that shit again and I’ll cut her face.
Sebastian:
Why are you doing this?
Me:
Fuck around and find out.
Sebastian:
It doesn’t have to be like this.
Me:
Then let’s talk.
Me:
You can come to my dorm. Or I can come to you.
Me:
And under you.
Sebastian:
Please stop.
Me:
You know you want me.
Me:
Don’t act like this doesn’t mean anything.
Me:
I miss you.
Me:
I love you. Why can’t you see that?
Me:
Are you with that bitch Becky?
Me:
I warned you, Bash.
Me:
Looks like someone’s going to be getting their tires slashed.
Sebastian:
What do you want from me?
Me:
To be hit by a car.
Me:
Preferably mine.
Did I fall asleep while waiting in here? Is this a nightmare? Because this can ’ t be real.
Not only are the messages heinous, but there are red flags all over the page, most notably the time stamps.
I recognize several of the dates, seeing that my messages were supposedly sent about half an hour after I got off work. Except there’s only one problem. I’m a creature of habit. Every time after my shift, I only want to do one thing. Go back to my dorm and shower. And I don’t take my phone with me.
I can imagine Sebastian sneaking into my dorm when I’m not in there, but I know for a fact that Francesca was in the room studying for at least two of these dates.
I’ve confided in her more than anyone else about what’s been going on with Sebastian, so she knows damn well that I broke up with him.
If he showed up in the dorm room, she would have told me.
At least, if she was a good friend she would have.
But the more I play things over in my head, the more I have the impulse to vomit.
When we started the year, her laptop was an ancient relic that overheated, her cell phone was cracked, and she was constantly complaining about car problems. She claimed to never have any money, but over the past month, she started doing things like getting manicures, buying new clothes, and eating out at restaurants when she had previously been a slave to the punches on her dining hall pass.
She said she had gotten a part-time job, but when I asked what it was, she didn’t answer. Francesca didn’t have a uniform, never talked about her day at work, and was never in the dorm room any less. Nothing about her schedule had changed even by a minute.
And she had been the one to tell me not to block Sebastian.
And she knows the passcode to my phone.