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5
Ipull up outside her apartment building, find a parking spot and cut the engine. I’m on the steps and buzzing up a minute later.
“Hello?” her shaky voice crackles from the speaker.
“It’s me.” She buzzes me up, unlocking the door. I pull it and make my way inside, bypassing the lift and taking the stairs two at a time. I jog up to the third floor.
My heart ricochets in my chest from my ascent to her flat, and I suck in long deep breaths while banging on her door. It opens slowly. Peeking behind it is her tear-streaked face. Her eyes widen a little when she sees me. It’s not surprise, it’s relief, and she swings the door open and rushes into me, wrapping her arms around me.
Her soft sobs gut my insides as she shudders against me. For a few moments I stand there like a frozen thing, a marble statue with my arms hung in the air, uncertain, before I allow myself to pat her back and shoulders until she calms down a little.
“Shhh, you’re okay, you’re safe,” I reassure her, but is she? I guess in this very moment in my arms, she is. “Let’s get inside.”
She pulls away, leaving a wet stain on my chest and takes my hand, leading me into the narrow hall that opens into a small lounge area. When we are inside, she releases my hand as if I’ve electrocuted her. Her eyes swing from my hands to my eyes. “Sorry.” She snivels.
“It’s fine.”
“Your uniform…” Her gaze travels to the wet patch on my chest.
“Will dry.”
She nods.
We stare at each other for a brief moment.
“What happened, Amy?”
“Oh, it was nothing.” She rubs one of her wrists in her other hand and looks away before wiping her face. “I shouldn’t have called. I’m sorry I worried you.”
It’s the typical victim behaviour; excusing their abuser, chalking it up to a misunderstanding, something trivial. But these instances are not trivial, and when they get away with the small things, they start to test the waters till they get away with bigger things, and then they get away with everything.
My jaw clenches as I grind my teeth. “Don’t do that. Don’t excuse his behaviour. Tell me what happened.”
When she doesn’t, I burn the distance between us with two steps and reach for her hand. I notice the bruise forming on her wrist. She doesn’t try to snatch her arm away.
“Tell me what happened.”
She looks up at me through her eyelashes, barely lifting her head. “He caught me on the way home, grabbed me, threatened me.”
“What did he say?”
Her hand slinks out of mine and she rubs the wrist, her eyes dipping down. She remains silent. Victims often do.
“Amy, look at me.” She doesn’t. “I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”
Her eyes are back on mine through those long fluttering lashes and pooled with unshed tears. I slide my hand to her chin, breaking every rule in every book and coax her head up with my finger, getting a whiff of her scent. It’s wild and sharp like wildflowers. I note the long black grooves of mascara through her natural foundation. Her soft green eyes meet mine, set in swollen blotched skin. She is still beautiful even when she’s fragile. I swallow the thought away.
“What did he say?” I repeat my earlier question, our eyes locked. I can see the fear in hers and hope she can see the compassion in mine. I just want to keep her safe.
“He said he is going to kill me.” She blurts it out as a tear escapes and carves her cheek, landing on my finger. The liquid heat spreads down my palm and cools with her words.
I take a second to absorb her words. “I won’t let him hurt you.”
She nods again, and I remove my hand, wiping it against my pants and taking a step back. She looks like she’s about to fall apart again, but I don’t have the time to comfort her. Not now. “I need you to go to the bathroom and wash your face. I need you calm, so I can help you.”
This isn’t how I would usually interact with victims of violent crimes, but I have to get back and this isn’t an official investigation. This isn’t an official anything. I need to know if she wants to change that, but first, I need her to stop crying and start talking. She nods and wordlessly slinks out of the room. Somewhere down the hall, a door closes and a tap starts to run. I take the time to look over the small apartment.
The walls are a limoncello yellow and the light bounces off them, making the place look oddly cheery. A double-seater couch stands in the middle of the room, stacked with fluffy cushions, and a thin shawl is thrown haphazardly across the back. A few potted plants begging for water are scattered around the room along with books and random knickknacks. There is a mantle with some pictures on it, and I step over to look. A group of people posing in front of London Bridge, an older couple in front of a country house, a few other random pictures of people, all smiling, all looking at the camera. I note that Amy isn’t in any of them. She must have been the one behind the camera. Hiding in the shadows – like a victim.
