18. Chapter 18
Chapter 18
Faith
I didn't expect Derek to take charge this way, but I'd be lying if I said I wished he wasn't. I've taken this same drive to the police station so many damn times but with no progress or safety measures taken to show for it. Each time, I get the same response that the cops can't do anything without physical proof of assault. It's hard to run to the police when your life is threatened while the bruises are healed. But this time feels different. It feels like something might get done, but part of me knows not to hold my breath.
I hesitate when I slide out of the truck, the keyed metal staring me in the face, a warning not to go inside, but Derek sees me and takes me by the hand.
"We're not leaving until we know they're going to bring him in," he promises me.
"Okay," I take a deep breath and walk inside, leading the way to the same department that files initial reports.
"Hello, Faith," Officer Jones sighed as if seeing me was such an inconvenience to him. He's an older gentleman who barely fits his uniform but probably has some kind of waiver that allows him to work at a desk that's never without a coffee and remnants of a couple of donuts.
"Hi," I say as Derek walks up with me to Jones's desk. "I have to file a couple of reports."
"Let me guess," he scoffs as he reads through files instead of looking up at me. "That boyfriend of yours."
"Ex-boyfriend, and yes. I need to file—"
"I keep telling you that we can't do anything unless he hurts you. I'm busy. Now stop wasting my time," he says, almost waving me away like a dumb little girl. But this time, I have Derek, and he's already fuming.
He slams his hands down on Jones's desk, getting his attention along with the attention of everyone else in the room.
"She was assaulted last night at a bar. Her ex-boyfriend, who I'm sure you're already familiar with, physically grabbed her before throwing a drink in her face. That whole shit show is on camera at Jo's Bar. The bastard followed us to my house in the middle of the night, by use of hacking Faith's phone, by the way, where he keyed both sides of my car, all of which I have on video. I don't give a rat's ass how busy you think you are. Either help her, or I go straight to your supervisor."
Jones and Derek are locked in a stare-down, neither wavering until Jones knows he's been beaten. His eyes drift to the other officers in the room, all waiting with wide eyes and bitten smirks to see his next move. Eventually, Jones gets to his feet with a heavy groan.
"Give me five minutes," he says before disappearing around the corner.
"That is the level of boldness that I aspire to have one day," I admit as we sit down at Jones's desk.
"Wanna know a little psych trick?" he grins.
"Sure."
"When someone is trying to intimidate you or make you feel like you're crazy, stare at their forehead while they're talking to you. It's crazy, but it makes them shut up and feel self-conscious. Once they do that, ask them if they're okay in a condescending way. They'll get the hint pretty quick," he chuckles. "It works with narcissists like Ryan, too."
"Ideally, I would never have to talk to him face to face ever again," I remind him. "But it's good to have something tucked away in the toolbox."
Jones returns with two file folders and lays out two forms, one for me and one for Derek.
"Alright, Faith," he starts with me. "I need you to write a full statement, everything you can remember, then sign it. You said Jo's Bar?" he asks Derek.
"Yes, sir," Derek nods. "You can call Evan the bartender. He helped get Ryan out of there after he threw the drink. He'll get you the camera footage."
"Okay," Jones says, jotting down notes of his own, then says to Derek, "As for you, fill out your statement about the property damage. Do you have access to the camera footage of Ryan?"
"Yes, sir," Derek replies, handing over a flash drive he prepared just before we headed here.
"You clearly came prepared," Jones says.
"I don't take stalking or physical assault lightly," Derek replies, and it takes everything in me to bite back the grin on my face as I write out my statement.
When I'm about halfway through writing, the world suddenly feels as if it's caving in. There's a panic in my chest that tightens as I force myself to remember everything that happened at the bar. Ryan's darkened eyes and the smell of tobacco and green gum on his breath make my stomach turn. I can feel all the color drain from my face when I reach for the arm that he grabbed, the weight of his grip still lingering like a ghost. My hands begin to shake, and my handwritten transitions from neat and controlled to a scribbled mess as I force the last of my memory onto the page, but before I can do that, Derek gently takes my hand and sets the pen it holds onto the desk.
"Faith," he says gently, but I can barely hear him over the high-pitched noise ringing in my ears as the panic inside me grows, slowly then all at once, until I'm fighting for one, just one deep breath amongst short, erratic gasps for air.
The hand holding the clipboard with my statement falls to the floor with a loud thud as it reaches for my chest as if it can rub away the growing knot that's surely trying to kill me.
"Faith, it's okay," Derek says, but this time, he reaches for the sides of my chair and turns them so I'm facing him head-on. I can barely make him out over the tunnel vision that only lets me see a couple of feet ahead of me, but his voice—I hold onto his voice for dear life because I'm sure it's the only thing that gives me a grasp on reality.
"He's not here. He won't hurt you," he says as he gently rubs my tightened fist until it loosens. "You're safe. Do you hear me? You're safe."
I try to answer him, but my choppy breathing doesn't let so much as a whimper out, so all I do is nod my head as I try not to pass out in front of everybody here.
I nearly jump out of my skin when Officer Jones comes around from the corner of my eye to pick up the fallen clipboard. He disappears once again, but this time returns with a bottle of water and a softer expression on his face.
"Thank you," Derek says as he unscrewed the lid, but he doesn't hand it to me right away. Faith, try taking a deep breath."
I can't; there's no air, I think to myself. There's no more air, and I'm going to die right here.
I shake my head as if it's the only means of communication at my disposal, and tears start falling from my eyes. I choke on them between uneven, unsteady breaths that make my heartbeat faster than before while everything in me is begging me, screaming at me to run as far away from here as I can.
"Faith," Derek says more sternly as he takes both my hands in his. "Just breathe in and don't breathe out until I tell you. Can you do that for me?"
I nod along, but I don't have much faith in myself when I take in what can only be called a pathetic excuse for a deep breath. Just when I think he wants me to let it out, he shakes his head.
"Hold it," he says, holding up his fingers that count down from three.
When his countdown ends, I feel that surely I'm about to pass out, but before I can even worry about that, he commands yet another deep breath in. This time, a little more air fills my lungs, but there's a tight grip that still sits heavy in my chest. Again and again, I take one deep breath after another, each time holding it in just a little longer than before until the tension leaves my shoulder, the panic loosens in my chest, and the tunnel vision gradually fades away.
"I feel like I'm going to pass out," I gasp once I have enough air to talk.
"Head between your legs," Derek says, and I do just that.
I close my eyes and find comfort in the weight of Derek's hand, gently rubbing my back as I take deeper breaths on my own. When the sinking feeling begins to fade and I can feel some color return, I sit back up to find Derek and Jones looking at me with concern.
"I'm fine," I say, and Derek hands me the water bottle.
"Slow sips," he instructs, then turns to Jones. "We want to file a restraining order as soon as possible."
"I'll review the evidence and get it sent over to a judge," he replies. "It might take a day or two."
"Then we'll expect updates until it's done," Derek says, and Jones doesn't even try to argue but simply nods his head and gets to work.
I somehow pick up the pen and quickly scribble the rest of my statement, sign it, and set it on Jones's desk like it's a poisonous snake about to bite me.
"I'll log this evidence and get back to you about getting that restraining order going," Jones says once our statements are signed and he has our video footage.
"Thanks, we appreciate that," Derek says as we stand up to leave.
"Looking over the evidence, and if he's as smart and tech-savvy as you say he is, he'd be smart to stay away from you for a while if he knows what's good for him," Jones adds, trying to downplay a situation that we all know only escalates from here.
"Sixty-three percent," I tell him, but he just looks at me like he doesn't know we're talking about the same thing.
"Excuse me?" he asks.
"Sixty-three percent of female homicide victims were killed by their current or ex-partners," I inform him. "Seventy-six percent of victims murdered by their partner were stalked first."
"I'm not a woman and even I don't like those odds," Derek adds.
"It's really not that big a deal," Jones tries, but this time, it's my turn to slam my hands down on his desk.
"Eighty nine percent of female homicide victims who were physically assaulted before their murder were stalked in the year prior to their murder," I snap at him.
"Whether you want to admit it or not, it's a big deal," Derek says sternly.
"I know you're just trying to make me feel better," I say as I lean in and lock eyes with the bastard. "But I'd appreciate it more if you cut the crap and stop trying to sugarcoat things or make them seem like they aren't as bad as they really are. It does more harm than good."
"Look, I was just—"
"I know what you were trying to do," I say. "And I'm asking you to cut it out. I have a stalker ex-boyfriend who has beaten me in the past and has now gone to damaging private property to get my attention. You and I both know how these things get worse before they get better. Until I get that restraining order, I'm not going to act like my life isn't in danger or things aren't following the same patterns of women who find themselves murdered in their own homes because the police couldn't do anything about their stalkers. I've been watching my back for years, and it's only gotten worse, so stop talking to me like I don't know what I'm talking about."
"Okay, fine," he says.
"Just let us know as soon as possible when we can file the restraining order, please," Derek says.
"Will do," Jones nods as Derek and I head back to his truck.
"How long do you think he's been a cop?" Derek asks as we shuffle around the hallways we came in through.
"Long enough to know what the hell not to do when a woman is being stalked," I answer.
"I know this is probably a dumb question to ask, but has he always treated you like that when you've tried dealing with Ryan before?"
"Pretty much," I sigh. "There's only so much police can do about stalkers anyway, so every time I tried saying Ryan was back, that he was harassing me, Jones or someone else would basically talk down to me like I was some dumb little girl who was crying wolf. They always acted like what Ryan was doing wasn't a big deal because he didn't put his hands on me."
"But Ryan did put his hands on you," he says as we reach the station's front doors.
"He would threaten me until the bruises went away. He always checked my phone to make sure I never took photos of the bruises, so by the time I went to the police, it was my word against his," I explain. Just hearing the words come out of my mouth is embarrassing. I still hate myself for staying as long as I did, to be stuck under Ryan's thumb and still defending him against anyone who tried writing him off as a monster.
"I'm so sorry you went through that," he says once the cold winter air rushes past us as we walk to his truck. "Wait, what the fuck is that?"
"What?" I ask, and he picks up into a jog to pull the manila envelope tucked in his windshield wiper.
"It's got your name on it," he says, holding it out to me. My name is written in thick black marker in handwriting, and I could recognize it as Ryan's anywhere.
Derek takes a look around the area, just as I do, but neither of us spots Ryan or anyone suspicious watching us from a distance. From somewhere—I'm not sure exactly—I find the courage to open the envelope to see candid photos of Derek and me from just this morning looking over the damage done to Derek's truck.
"How the fuck did I not see him?" Derek asks as he shuffles through the dozen photos of us with shocked expressions.
"He's probably watching us now," I say, not daring to look up to save him the joy of capturing yet another horrified look on my face.
"Let's get this to back to jack-ass, Jones."