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“We should put your clothes into a paper bag.”
“I’m not reporting this.”
“That’s fine. You might change your mind. We should put the clothes in a bag and then you can throw them away in a few weeks, when you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
“Humor me.”
She looked at me uncomfortably for a moment, then walked down a short hallway to the kitchen. I followed her. Walking through the swinging door, I noticed immediately that the kitchen was perfect. Everything was white oak, including the appliances. In the center of the room sat a giant island—bigger than the queen-sized bed Ronnie and I slept in. Candy walked across the room, opened a double-doored pantry, and pulled out a brown paper bag.
“Will this work?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what we need.” We stood awkwardly for a moment. I took the bag from her. “Where are the clothes?”
“This way.”
She led me up a flight of stairs to the second floor and into the master bedroom. It was as spacious and as white as the kitchen. Not a thing was out of place.
“Is this where it happened?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“You straightened everything up.”
“I did.”
“The sheets are in the hamper with your clothes?”
“Yes, they are.”
“We’ll need another bag.”
Without a word, she left the room. The room was on the canal side of the house. One wall was drapes over glass. The drapes were half open and I could see out to the balcony, which ran the length of the house. Unlike the pristine bedroom, one of the chairs had been knocked over.
I debated whether to call Lydia. On the one hand, I worked for her and should be telling her everything. On the other, our client was the accused rapist. She should be as far away from this as possible. I shouldn’t even be there. I could, eventually, possibly, be accused of attempting to influence Candy into not reporting the rape. The fact that it wasn’t true didn’t mean it wouldn’t happen.
When she came back, I asked, “Is there someone we should call? A friend? A family member?”
“I called you. I don’t have the kind of friends you call in a crisis. And as for my family, well, most of the time they are the crisis.”
It sounded like something she’d said before, before she was raped. The look on her face made it obvious she was having the same thought. Anything normal in the middle of a crisis felt wrong.
“It’s okay to feel whatever you’re feeling. There isn’t a right way to do this,” I said.
I was trying to be kind, but all I really wanted to do was grill her on what happened. There had to be a way to get Whatley, whether Candy reported the rape or not.
We put the sheets into the second bag. Gently, I asked, “Is there a reason that chair is knocked over?”
She looked out onto the balcony, quickly slid the glass door open, and went out to right the chair. When she came back in, she said, “I got away from him. Briefly. The chair fell over when he pulled me back inside.”
“Did you have a chance to yell?”
“I screamed. Quite loudly, I think.”
“But no one…”
“I’ve had complaints that I play my television too loud. If anyone heard, I’m sure they thought it was some program.”
