Chapter 27 #2
I’m on my seventh cup of coffee. Or is it the eighth?
I wonder as I take another sip. I’m trying to focus on Harold, who’s telling me about how he spoke up for himself at work, which is a big accomplishment for him, but my mind keeps wandering.
I’m both exhausted and feeling like I might climb out of my own skin.
It’s not exactly pleasant. There are only five minutes left in this session though, and it’s my last one for the day.
“… And then I asked if there was anyone else who might be better suited to handling it!” Harold says, a smile stretching across his face.
“That’s really great, Harold. I’m proud of you for asking the question,” I reply. “How did you feel afterward?”
“I was worried they were going to hate me. I thought I might get reported to HR for being combative, but…”
I glance out the window, looking at the sky. It’s four-twenty-five, and the sun is dipping low. It’ll be setting by the time I’m leaving the building. At least Teresa will be walking out with me.
“…But he said he would look into it.”
“That’s fantastic, Harold. How do you believe you would feel next time you do it?”
“Oh. I couldn’t do it again,” he says, frowning.
“Why not?”
“They would think I was a troublemaker. Or that I wasn’t a team player.”
I nod. “I want to talk about that more, but we don’t have time today. Prior to our next session, I’d like you to make a list of your coworkers. Under their names, I’d like you to note each instance in the past year where you can remember them asking for something, and bring it with you, alright?”
“Okay, Dr. Reed. I will.”
“Excellent. Let’s go talk to Teresa and get your appointment set up,” I say as I stand.
Teresa patiently listens to Harold mumble his way through booking his next appointment before he’s out the door.
“He’s getting better,” she tells me once we’re alone. “He actually looks at me sometimes when he speaks now.”
“I know. He spoke up for himself at work this week.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. Are you ready to go? I don’t want to get stuck in traffic any longer than I have to,” I lie.
“Sure.” She grabs her coat. “Any plans for this weekend?” Teresa asks. I’m already scanning the hallway as we step into it and she locks the door.
“Just spending it with Mark.”
“How’s that going? You seem pretty into him.”
“I am,” I admit with a shrug. The lock slides into place. “And good, I think. Katie’s out of town for a bit, so I’m staying with him for the next week while he’s here.”
Teresa raises her eyebrows as we move down the hallway toward the elevators. “You’re serious about him, then?”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“That’s new,” she says, reaching for the elevator button.
“Yup. What about you?” I ask as the doors part and we step into an empty elevator.
“We’re going to put up the Christmas tree.”
“Before Thanksgiving?” I question, feigning shock. “Scandalous, Teresa. Scandalous.”
She laughs. “If I do it now, then I can take family photos of everyone in front of the tree during Thanksgiving and send them to people before Christmas. It saves me the hassle of trying to corral them all twice.”
“That’s a good idea,” I tell her as we step out of the elevator and head for the exit.
I’m searching the parking lot, which is emptier now than it was when I arrived this morning.
I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched, but I’m not sure how much of that I should put down to paranoia and too much caffeine.
Nothing happens as we walk across it, though, and Teresa climbs into her vehicle as I climb into mine. I lock the doors and start my car.
The winding road that runs along the edge of Forest Park leading to Mark’s is cloaked in shadows as dusk settles across the city.
The trees have lost most of their leaves, and the underbrush has died back enough that I can see flashes of light from the houses along the road that would’ve been completely obscured a month and a half ago, when I was first here.
As I come around the final bend before Mark’s, there are two sets of headlights moving down his driveway, leaving his house, and I slow my approach to give them time to turn onto the road.
The lights are bright enough that I have to squint against them, but I catch a glimpse of the spotlight along the driver’s side mirror as I move past the first car, and I lock my eyes onto the second. Not only does it have a spotlight beside the mirror, but there are lights on the roof. Fuck.
It’s a cop car. Two cop cars.
I continue past them, not turning down Mark’s driveway. I keep going until I reach the end of the road. The same spot I ended up the first time I tried to find his house and drove past it. Before I had ever spoken to him.
I cut my headlights, pull out my phone, and open an incognito browser.
Katie called me during lunch while I was sitting at my desk, filling another dart with Telazol, to let me know she’d talked to a reporter from some news station down there.
She said it went fine, but the interview wasn’t online then.
I search ‘Katie Stanton’ and click on the most recent article.
It’s from an hour ago, and there’s a link to a video of her interview.
The reporter is offscreen, and the camera is only focused on Katie.
Her blond hair is pulled back from her face, making her blue eyes look even larger than normal.
“I haven’t spoken to the media since the verdict was read because there wasn’t any reason to.
At the time, I said everything I had to say.
But now that three of the men who’ve raped me have died, I want to say that the morning after the rape occurred, when Rhys Steichen forced me to make the video saying I wanted what happened to me, he told me I didn’t have a choice.
He said that they had done it before to other women, and they’d gotten away with it, so they’d get away with what they did to me too.
And he was right. They did. I pressed charges.
I testified. I did everything I was supposed to. And they still got away with it.
“I don’t know what’s happened to them, but I know I’m not the only victim out there. That’s all I have to say,” she finishes, before she turns and walks into the house, slamming the door in the reporter’s face.
The article with the video speculates that an unidentified victim could be behind the recent string of deaths but offers nothing else of substance.
I search ‘Rhys Steichen’ to find out if they’re reporting his death yet, since that has to be why the police were at Mark’s house.
Nothing on the first page mentions anything about it, though.
I limit the search results to items posted within the past twenty-four hours, and the only articles are about some assists he made in the last game and Katie’s latest statement.
They’ve probably found Rhys’s body but are keeping it quiet.
I guess they could’ve been talking to Mark about something else.
They could’ve been asking him questions about one of the other players.
They could’ve been following up on something. But I don’t think they were.
My heart seems to miss a beat as I shove my phone into my coat pocket and return the way I came. This time, I turn into Mark’s driveway. The lights are on, and a warm, cheery glow leaks from the windows.
I feel nauseous.