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Her shift in energy drains my anger all at once, the tide waning as I watch her shrink in front of me. I can tell I've made a mistake as soon as she says those words. Former foster father. Suddenly, the story she told me on the boat comes back to me, the pieces of the puzzle that she is finally falling into place. The shitty foster family, the pain of not wanting to live anymore. I know immediately that this man did something to her. I can see it in the way her entire body just shut down, the way her brain just turned everything off… to protect her.
I exist in a murky world. It’s the kind of dark most people never have to concern themselves with. I know how relentlessly cruel it can be, and yet I didn’t see the signs.
I shake my head, trying to stop her before she can say the rest of the words I've been demanding. But I'm the one who pressed her into the wall and threatened her for the truth, and I've broken her enough that she’s going to give it to me now whether I want it or not. I don’t want her to say the words I can feel are coming—I don’t want them to be true, and I don’t want her to give them to me because I’ve bullied it out of her. But they slip off her tongue without emotion, detached and automatic.
"The man who raped me."
Once they’re said, they can't be taken back. It’s a truth that I now know, something private that I forced her to reveal. Something I wish I could undo. But it’s too late.
I let go of her like she's burned me and step away from her as I try to find the words to... I don't know what I think my words can accomplish. They can’t take back my relentless, obsessive pushing. They can’t undo her past or take away her pain. They mean nothing to her.
Claire closes her eyes and raises her hand to her lips like she can take the words back. Or maybe she’s going to be ill. Or maybe she’s wiping away the feel of my lips on her, another man forcing her to do something she never wanted to.
Whatever it is, it’s fleeting, because she turns and runs from my room so fast that I don't have a chance to get anything past my throat. I try to grab her before she breaks past my door, but she’s fast and I’m rooted to the spot. Her door slams shut before I even manage to move.
I pinch the bridge of my nose like that will counteract the pressure in my head, which is suddenly pounding with the weight of all the thoughts in my head.
Only one thing right now is clear— I've fucked up. Big time.
I reach for the phone in my pocket and dial Jack's speed dial. "Remington." He sounds surprised when he answers. "You talked to Jovich?"
"Yes." I snap. "I want the records."
Jack lets out a whistling breath. "It was hard to get. I could get in some deep shit if I share the file out. I have my family to consider…"
"You'll be in some deep shit if you don't." I snap, unwilling to bow to his attempt to strong-arm me. We both know it’s not his menial police salary that keeps his family living comfortably.
Though he can't see me, Jack seems to sense just how serious I am. He hesitates a moment and then laughs drily. "What the fuck is with this girl, Rem? She got a golden pussy or something?"
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as my anger turns necrotic, eating away at what’s left of my patience. Jack is lucky to be a thousand miles away because if he was standing in front of me, I’d probably punch him right in the throat. "Send me the fucking files!" I yell. "Now."
"Alright." He sighs, and I hear papers shuffling in the background. "I'll fax them."
"It's the twenty-first century." I growl. "Nobody uses a fucking fax machine. Take a picture on your phone and send it to me."
"Alright," Jack grumbles. "Anything else, Your Highness?"
I ignore the smart-ass remark, grinding my jaw together. "Yeah. Look into this Eric Giante guy and let me know what you find."
I can hear the keyboard clicking as he types the name into his search bar. "Looks like a low-level piece of shit. Domestic abuse, battery, petit theft, grand larceny…” he whistles under his breath. “And the list goes on… domestic abuse, sexual assault, lewd and lascivious acts against a child under eighteen..."
"Just send me the pictures." I snap, hanging up on him before he can go any further.
I feel oddly ill, unsettled. I work for the worst sort of people that humanity has to offer. I’ve seen what they do to women, to children, to anyone they deem less than them. I’ve seen men take what they want, and I’ve seen the women who have had everything taken from them. I had everything taken from me, too.
I relate to Claire more than she will ever know. Just the thought of anyone else putting their hands on her makes me want to explode, but the thought of anyone else hurting her? It makes me want to go nuclear.
I try to control my rage, knowing it is fueled by my guilt. My father had made it his mission to destroy people in the pursuit of money and power. I made it my mission to try and lessen his impact, to bring some light into the darkness he created. I try to heal the wounds that he caused, and yet I've just blown a hole through the safety net of someone I care about… someone who crawled her way through the darkness into the light on her own, only for me to come along and kick her back toward it.
My fingers curl around the phone, and I’m just about to chuck it at the wall when it buzzes with Jack's message. I braced myself as I zoom in to read the picture and scroll through the first few paragraphs of irrelevant information.
At 22:13, Officer Timothy Ketty was dispatched to a domestic disturbance at 8420 Prince Park. The caller claimed assault with a deadly weapon and attempted murder.
I, Officer Ketty, arrived at 22:38. There was a woman standing on the porch (Jane Giante, WF, D.O.B. 08/23/69). She was frantic and claimed their foster child had tried to kill her husband. Mrs. Giante took me inside to an upstairs room, where I observed a large man with a superficial cut across his left cheek (Eric Giante, WM, D.O.B.01/29/1968), and a young woman (Claire Monroe, WF, D.O.B. 03/24/2002) backed into the corner.
I sent Mr. Giante downstairs and asked Ms. Monroe what had happened. She claimed that Mr. Giante came at her with the knife in a rage. He slapped her across the face. Ms. Monroe claims fear for her life. She wrestled the knife away from him and tried to "stop him from hurting anyone again." I observed a handprint on the right cheek consistent with Ms. Monroe's claims, as well as older, unrelated marks and bruises. Her face was wet from crying and upper lip was bloodied.
I questioned Mr. Giante separately. He claims that he entered his foster daughter's room to tell her goodnight when she became agitated and pulled the knife from her nightstand. Mr. Giante claims that he slapped her when she threatened him, and she lunged at him, causing the laceration on his cheek. He says she told him she was going to "kill you". At that point, he wrestled the knife out of her grip and sent Jane to call 911. He commanded her to sit in the corner until the police arrived.
