Chapter 18
sarah
Isit at my desk in the clinic, my phone cold against my palm.
Outside the window, the last light bleeds out of the sky, turning the glass dark so I see my own reflection staring back at me. I’m afraid.
I put my earbuds on and punch in the number on the card Marnie Evans gave me.
She answers on the second ring. “Marnie Evans here.”
“Hi, Marnie. This is Sarah Kirk.”
“Thank you for calling me back, Sarah.” She’s calm and at ease.
Her voice feels…trustworthy. Which is ridiculous, because I don’t know this woman at all.
But I did my homework—Googled her, read everything I could find about her and written by her.
She’s broken story after story about powerful men who victimized women.
The latest one is about a Hollywood producer who raped young actors for years.
I read a few of the stories before I had to stop. The details clawed at me until I was curled in bed like a child, knees tucked tight, sobbing into the dark.
Triggered. Shaken. Broken all over again.
I called my therapist the next morning for an emergency session just to feel like I had my feet under me again. It helped—but only like duct tape over a cracked pipe.
Because the truth is, I don’t think I’ll ever be okay.
I’ll always be cautious.
Always scared to take a drink in public—just in case.
Always checking over my shoulder in a parking lot—just in case.
Always tense when a shadow moves too close.
Always waiting for it to happen again.
“I want to know how you found out about me,” I ask, already regretting the call.
What the hell am I doing talking to a stranger about this?
“I have a source. A reliable one.”
I know she won’t tell me, no matter how much I ask. I’ve watched enough movies and read enough news to know journalists would rather go to jail than disclose their sources.
“Am I…the first?” I blurt.
Pause.
“You mean, are you the first woman Landon Mercer raped?”
My hand holding the phone starts to shake.
“I need a minute,” I whisper, then mute the line and pace my office. She’d said the words—the words no one ever said to me before. She said that Landon raped me, like it’s true. Like she believes me. This was someone else speaking my truth.
All I ever heard was, “Stop lying about Landon.”
I sit down and unmute. “I’m back.”
“Are you okay?” Her voice is soft, like she knows how to talk to someone like me.
“Yes.” I’m private; I don’t reveal much. But this woman makes me feel less burdened, so I tell her. “No one has ever said that he raped me. You’re the first person to....”
“I’m so sorry, Sarah.” She waits a beat and adds, “Survivors tell me that when they’re not believed, it’s like they’re assaulted again.”
My throat goes dry. She’s right. That’s exactly how it feels.
“What…do you want from me, Marnie?”
“I want your story,” she says gently. “But more than that, I want you to know you’re not alone.”
Pressure builds, sharp and crushing, until I can hardly breathe.
“You said there were others.” My voice is thin, fragile.
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“I have spoken to eight other women. But there are more.”
Eight. Oh God.
I hug myself to stop from shaking. “How many more?”
“I’d say twice as many. I’m still investigating.”
“How can people not know what he’s doing?”
“Landon Mercer is powerful. There are NDAs, hush money, threats—various ways to silence victims.”
It feels unreal, like I’m in an episode of a TV show.
“No one has…threatened me.”
A long sigh. “Once they find out you’re talking to me, they might.”
I lean back and close my eyes. “They might or they will?”
“They will.” There is no hesitation from her. This isn’t her first rodeo.
“If you have eight women already…why talk to me?”
I’m getting a stress headache. My skin feels tight.
“Only two of them will go on the record, and I need more to make the story credible, so my editors will publish,” she explains softly.
“What…what do they say about Landon?”
“I can’t share their stories, Sarah. You understand that.”
“Yes.” It’s a relief she won’t blab, but it also makes me feel worse because I’ve got nothing to hold on to.
“I can’t give specifics but.... He allegedly assaulted a woman at the university. She was his friend’s girlfriend. He told his friend she hit on him and…that they had consensual sex.” The room tilts. I grip the edge of the desk, nails digging into the wood.
“She didn’t press charges. Landon managed to make her a pariah with everyone, branding her as someone who sleeps around. The harassment became intolerable. She dropped out and went back home.”
I hear papers rustling on the other end. “She died by suicide two years later.”
I moan involuntarily. “No.” Tears roll down my face. This can’t be happening. “If I had stopped him…,” I sob. “If only….”
“You couldn’t stop him. Neither could that woman, who I think was the one after you. Neither could the intern who thought she’d been invited to a networking dinner and ended up locked in a hotel room with Landon Mercer.”
Her words slash like a whip.
“I should’ve tried harder,” I whisper, forehead on the table. “I could’ve helped so many others.”
“Sarah, listen. You were young. These girls…they were all young.”
I raise my head. “How young?”
“Eighteen or nineteen years old.”
Children. My worst fear.
“You know what else they have in common, Sarah?” There’s a pause, then a low sound of movement on her end.
I’m afraid to know.
“They all look like you.”
I can’t make sense of what she’s saying. “What?” I choke.
“Landon Mercer is a serial rapist. He has a type. I think it started with you and….”
He’s violating me again and again in the pattern he picked—young women who look like I did.
“Sarah, Landon wants to run for a higher office. He’s not just a small-town politician. If his history isn’t exposed, he’ll only be able to hurt more people.”
I feel nauseous. I know I have to tell the truth, but….
“No one will believe me, Marnie. Even my father didn’t. Cade….” My throat tightens at his name. “He was my boyfriend…Landon’s younger brother. He didn’t believe me. Landon is popular, charismatic. He won his seat seventy to thirty.”
“Yes.” Marnie sounds resolute. “He has money, power, lawyers who’ll paint you as bitter, unstable, attention-seeking. It won’t be easy.”
She’s not wrong. I already know all of that.
“What happens if I tell you everything?” I ask, my voice cracking.
“You’ll be heard,” she says. “But you’ll also be seen. Your name will be in print. People will take sides. And it won’t always feel safe.”
My gaze drops to the exam table where I took care of Bandit. Even after the life he’d had, which was awful, he still trusted me…Evie. That dog has more courage and faith in the universe than I do.
“I need to think,” I whisper.
“I understand,” Marnie replies. “Call me when you decide—or just to talk. Whatever you tell me is confidential. I will never use a word unless you give me permission.”
“Thanks, Marnie.” I hang up, press both hands to my face, and try to breathe.
He’s still hurting women.
I think back. Kaz was the one who hinted I was his first victim. How did he know? How does he know about Marnie?
My hands are clammy on the desk when a sharp knock jolts me. I stand too quickly, my chair scraping tile.
The clinic door creaks open, spilling in the last streaks of twilight. A tall man steps inside—mid-thirties maybe, broad-shouldered, sun-browned, dark hair tucked under a sweat-stained cap. He has kind eyes—warm brown, crinkling at the corners—and an easy, unforced smile.
Fear slides through me.
“Yes?” I pull on a facade of calm.
“Dr. Kirk?” His voice is low, even, touched with a drawl. “Name’s Gilbert Perry. I’m working with Dr. Bodie Tiller. Thought I’d come by and introduce myself.”
For a beat, I can’t find my voice. I force a smile, tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Oh—yes. Of course. Nice to meet you.”
We shake hands. He stands back, thumbs hooked in his belt, and looks around. “This is a nice place.”
“Thanks.”
“Ah…you don’t have an assistant?” he asks.
That brings a small smile to my face. “I’m not as busy as Dr. Tiller.”
My phone beeps then, and I see it’s a message from Marnie.
His gaze follows for a second, then he clears his throat. “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything. Sounded like you were on a call.”
My stomach knots. Did he hear my conversation with Marnie?
“I was,” I say noncommittally.
He smiles warmly, and it’s genuine enough that it takes the edge off my nerves.
“Glad to be here,” he continues. “Folks talk about your dad like he was a cross between Dr. Dolittle and James Herriott.”
That image shakes off the last of my anxiety. I laugh softly.
“Seems to me, Dr. Kirk, you’re carrying that torch just fine.”
The compliment lands where I miss Daddy most. “I’ve always fancied being a cross between Wonder Woman and Dr. Jane Hinton.”
“Now, that’s a much prettier combo.”
After Gilbert leaves, I pack up and head home. First thing I do is check the locks on the doors—twice.
Habit, compulsion, survival.
I crack open a bottle of bourbon. Daddy’s old stash—mine now, like everything else in this house that still feels like his shadow. I sit in his office, surrounded by the smell of leather and old books, and pour a finger. Then another. Then three. The burn is sharp at first, then warm, then nothing.
By the time I finish close to half the bottle, I can’t feel the ache in my chest. Can’t feel much at all. I drag myself to bed and let the dark take me.
When I wake, the morning light is brutal, splitting my skull in two.
My mouth tastes like ash, my stomach rolls, and the pounding in my head feels like a hammer.
Sarah, you’re havin’ an epic hangover, babe.
I’ll take it.
The alcohol kept the monsters out of my dreams—at least, for one night, and that makes it worth it.