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“The police will help me.”
If we were in the same room, I’d slap Lily. Not because I’m angry with her, but because she needs the reality of her actions made clear. “What exactly is your evidence?”
“He wrote me a letter, apologising,” she says coldly.
The chill of her voice triggers my first doubt in months. “What letter? What does it say?”
“Do you want to see a copy?”
“No, I don’t want to see you.”
“I’ll scan and email. I’m taking the letter to the police anyway.”
Another silence and the tears press at my eyes. “Lily, why are you doing this to him?” I ask in a tired voice.
“Because he abused me.” This time, her voice remains steady, unlike the shaky voiced, teary girl in the cafe who told me Dylan raped her.
“Lily, Dylan told me what happened. And Jem. He treated you badly, but that was years ago. Don’t ruin his life.”
“He ruined mine,” she shoots back.
I realise this conversation is and always will be on endless repeat. This woman is determined to follow whatever her agenda is, holding onto the past and pulling it into my future. Irritation rising, and knowing how my sharp tongue can cause problems, I calm myself.
“I’m sorry I contacted you, I can see there’s no point. I won’t contact you again.”
I end the call and wait for the new media onslaught.
