Page 3 of One Night Years Ago

For a moment, he thought the sheriff was going to pull the trigger. Then the older man’s finger relaxed on the trigger.

Bowmann walked towards him. Hunter’s reflexes were good. He saw the revolver come up and could have moved his face away, or at least brought his hands up to defend himself, but he chose to stay still as the Bowmann slammed the butt of the revolver against the side of his face.

Hunter didn’t make a noise as blood poured down his face from a shallow cut on his cheekbone.

Bowmann spit on his shoes and moved towards the door, rapping three times to be let out. As the door opened, he looked back at Hunter one more time.

“You will burn in Hell for what you did to my daughter. And if you get close to her or any young woman ever again, so help me God, I’ll help you get there quicker.”

The guard put his head in. “Fuck,” he said. He grabbed a paper towel and shoved it at Hunter. His expression was apprehensive.

“It’s okay,” Hunter said, shrugging his large shoulders. “I didn’t see the door when I walked in.”

Chapter 2

Natalie

Natalie Bowmann woke up in a puddle of something wet. For a moment, her muddled mind couldn’t place it. Her hands went to her sleeping shirt and she realized she was drenched in sweat.

Her nightmare came to her then. No, not a nightmare. Nightmares were frightening dreams, things that people feared might happen. This wasn’t a nightmare, it was a memory. It’d happened to her, and her subconscious simply refused to let her forget.

The dream had been coming less often in recent years. Maybe once a week instead of every time she closed her eyes, like at the beginning. But today was a special day: the day her rapist got out of prison.

She’d read the parole decision letter. In his last hearing, Hunter Fowler had somehow convinced the board that he was no longer a threat to public safety and earned himself eight years of his life back in the process. Natalie knew about the hearing because his new lawyer had asked her to testify in his favor, citing words like forgiveness and moving on. She’d refused, but they’d still sent her a copy of the letter as a courtesy.

Some courtesy.

When she’d read the first paragraph, peppered with words like regret, rehabilitation, improve, no longer a threat, she’d known he’d convinced the board to let him out.

She showered quickly to remove the sweat from her body. Unbidden tears rolled down her cheeks.

Her clearest memory from the rape was of unimaginable pain. She wasn’t a virgin—she’d had sex with her high school boyfriend a few times—but she was inexperienced. Not that experience could have prepared her for someone as large and violent as Fowler. He’d taken her on the damp ground in the back of the bowling alley, like an animal, whispering dark threats into her ear as he penetrated her unwilling body. Later, at the hospital, she’d been told he’d torn her inside. He’d broken one of her ribs. She was lucky it hadn’t been worse because she’d seen how much her pain had turned him on.

She scrubbed her cheeks, remembering the way he’d licked her tears as they fell from her eyes, his large body mashing her light frame into the ground. When she’d closed her eyes the first time, he’d wrapped a large hand against her throat and choked her until she opened them again. When she’d closed her eyes a second time, he’d bitten her breast until her nipple bled. She still carried the scar.

He’d wanted her to keep her eyes open so he could see her fear.

She turned off the shower and dried herself quickly. In her closet, she took out her last khaki shirt and matching pants. She made a mental note to stop by the dry cleaners on her way back home that evening. Her brown hair went up in an efficient ponytail. She wondered briefly whether she should be putting some makeup on to cover the circles under her eyes but then decided to forego it. She was the sheriff of Sharp’s Cove now. The whole town would be looking at her today, waiting to see her reaction. She wouldn’t go back to being a scared eighteen-year-old.

She drove her patrol car down Main Street and stopped at Holly’s Café, like she did every Wednesday. Sharp’s Cove was a small town, but it welcomed plenty of tourists during spring and summer.

At that time of year the residents looked on, amused, as people from all over the country came to gawk at the immaculate street lines with quaint shops and dining establishments. Recently, influencers had taken a fancy to the harbor as well, and spent hours lying on the docks trying to get the perfect shot.

There were two cafés, a hotel and a diner on Main Street. Natalie made sure to eat breakfast at all of them, each on one day of the week. On Fridays she went straight to the station and had some of Alma’s disgusting coffee instead.

It was seven-forty a.m. when she walked into the café. It should have been almost empty, but on this particular day it was packed. She recognized some friends of her father’s friends sitting in the corner. Shit, she hoped he wasn’t here. She really didn’t need to see her father now.

James Brody, from the Sharp’s Cove Gazette, was sitting at the counter with his daughter, Stella, who’d become the Gazette’s unofficial photographer in recent months. Natalie saw the girl raise her camera and glared in her direction. Her message must have been understood. The girl put the camera back in her bag and focused on her toast. Natalie sighed. It was going to be a long day.

“Morning, Sheriff,” Diane called from behind the counter. Diane was a round, sixty-year-old woman and the owner of Holly’s Café. People often asked about Holly, but as far as Natalie could tell, Holly had never existed; it was just a name Diane thought would make people feel welcome. Hers was the first café to open on Main Street, a landmark in town.

Natalie had come in determined to behave as usual, but the thought of sitting down at the counter with everybody watching her made her stomach clench.

“I’ll take my coffee to go today, please, Diane,” she said.

“Sure thing, Sheriff. One coffee coming right up, with sugar and cream.”

She kept her expression purposefully blank while she waited, aware that everybody was looking at her, waiting for her to fall apart. The citizens of Sharp’s Cove were good people, mostly, but gossip was a way of life in the small town.