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Why I begged to see him over and over as I was bundled into the military helicopter and flown to the nearest hospital to be checked over.
Why I’d adamantly refused a more thorough check when the nurse had spotted signs of a sexual encounter. How I’d wanted to yell that I wanted, no needed, to wear those chafing marks because they reminded me that Gage Monroe had happened to me. That it wasn’t some fever dream conjured up by my overeager imagination.
I’m not ready to divulge everything that had happened to my parents.
Soon enough, but not yet.
“I’ve told you everything I know, Kitty,” Dad insists.
I swallow hard to keep the fresh bouts of tears at bay. Silence reigns at the table for several more minutes.
“You want to come shopping with me today, honey?” Mom asks softly, her hand clutching mine tighter.
I shake my head, suppressing the pang of guilt.
Thanksgiving is one week away.
It’s our tradition that we go grocery shopping and do the decorating together at this time of year. But I’m not in thanksgiving mood. Not when Monroe is missing.
I open my mouth to press Dad some more. He preempts it by rising and gathering the plates to take to the sink.
He’s concerned but his face is also set in stubborn lines, and I know I won’t win this particular battle.
He’s already told me that the men in black military gear who stormed in and put an end to the riot that day weren’t part of the SWAT team helping local law enforcement sent to quell similar uprisings, but he won’t tell me who they were.
I’m not sure whether he doesn’t know who they were or is duty-bound to keep their identity secret.
My purse and phone got lost in the evacuation, which meant I had no means of tracing the mysterious call Monroe made.
Dad approaches after he puts the dishes in the dishwasher, but I keep my head low, exhaustion and pain wearing me down.
He murmurs to Mom, then I feel his hand on my shoulder. “See you later.” A kiss on my temple. “And you really need to try to put this behind you, sweetheart.”
I bite back a bark of hysterical laughter.
God. If only he knew how impossible that was…
I give up trying to distract myself with TV an hour after Dad leaves and Mom manages to talk one of her country club friends into taking my place on the shopping trip.
Dragging myself upstairs, I sag onto my bed, my fingers plucking at the hem of the pajama set I’ve lived in for three…four days?
It’s a testament to my sorry state that neither of my parents have suggested I take a shower. They’ve opted to let me be as long as I eat and make a half-assed attempt to sleep, with hygiene a lower priority.
Glancing down at myself, I grimace at the maple syrup stains on my shirt. The deep wrinkles in my shorts.
I’m not in the mood to have my spirits lifted—nothing and no one but Monroe appearing in front of my eyes will achieve that—but I don’t have to wallow in filth while swimming in the doldrums.
Rising, I undress and go into my bathroom.
Washing my body feels like a monumental chore, and by the time I’m clean enough, exhaustion saps at every cell in my body.
As the water cascades over my head and mingles with my tears, I force myself to contemplate the worst possible outcome.
What if Monroe is lost to me forever?
What if…what if the baby growing in my womb never gets to meet his or her father?
My hand settles over my still flat-ish belly, my bath and bedroom the only place I allow myself to openly rejoice in the secret nestled warm and safe inside me.
