Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)(120)
I stop at the advocacy center first. I remember learning about it during orientation, thinking I would never need it. I’m so grateful for it now. It’s after five in the afternoon, but there are people here at the front, waiting—with open arms. From the moment I step inside and utter the words “I was attacked,” I’m surrounded by support. My advocate’s name is Jane, and even her eyes on me while I’m talking let me know she’s on my side. She believes me, and Jane and I—we’ve got this.
The forms with the advocacy center take an hour to complete, but I insist on filing my report with the police tonight. I don’t want to wait—I’m afraid I’ll change my mind, and I’m also afraid of closing my eyes at night. This act I’m doing right now, it feels like a much-needed antidote to the poison Graham left behind.
The officer who greets us at the campus police station is kind. Her last name is Rodriguez. She told me her first name, and I know it’s on the card she handed me, but I can’t take my eyes off of her tag. I’ll remember her last name for now. I don’t think she likes that I insist Jane comes with me. But I can’t do this alone, and reluctantly the officer agrees, ushering me to a private room where I document every single moment of that night—what happened, and the people I know were there to see it. I give them Graham’s phone number, and his friend Brody’s name, the only friend of his I really spoke to. I’m sure his friends will stand up for him—I’m sure they’ve seen a scene like mine before. But I remembered other things from that night. The club’s security guy was named Jax, and he helped me into a cab. I describe a few others, including the cab driver…he saw things, too.
I’m racking my brain, trying to dig out more details, things I can give Officer Rodriguez that will help even more. The longer I speak, the angrier I get, and eventually, the emotion builds up to a boiling point and my hand forms a fist, punching hard against the table.
“It’s okay, Miss Burke. What you gave us, it’s enough for now,” the officer says, her hands still from writing in her notepad and her head cocked to one side. She’s almost being kind, but yet the whole thing feels sterile at the same time—emotionless. My breathing is a little rapid, and it takes me a few seconds to let the heat dissipate from my face.
“I’m sorry. I haven’t really…I haven’t really gone through anger yet,” I say, grabbing the bottle of water she brought for me, twisting the top off and drinking nearly half of it down.
“It’s all okay,” Jane says, her hand moving forward to mine, which is once again balled in a fist on the table. She pats it once, causing me to look up, my lungs finally taking a deep breath. “What you feel—whatever you feel, whenever you feel it—it’s okay.”
I take in Jane’s words, and I unfurl my fingers, flexing my hand and sliding it along the surface of the table outward from me, laying forward and stretching before pulling my body back in.
“It’s okay,” I repeat in a whisper.
“Yes,” she says.
After two hours of rehashing, probing questions into my background, and conversation that almost makes me feel as if I’m the one being investigated, Officer Rodriguez pulls all of the paperwork into a file, then makes some notes on the top cover before stacking it on top of several other folders. I wonder how many of those are cases just like mine?
Jane walks out from the back offices with me, and I can’t help myself—I hug her. She hands me a few of her cards, encouraging me to share them with others I think might need help, and she also urges me to call—whenever. I’m going to. A lot. Then she guides me back out to the front lobby where a homeless man is passed out across four seats. All of his earthly possessions are tucked in a black plastic bag clutched in his hand while he slumbers.
Jane and I part ways when I leave the police station. The air is crisp and cold. I stop at the steps and pull on Andrew’s sweatshirt, then lift my bag over my back and make my way to the train stop near the edge of campus. My fingers are tingling and my feet feel heavy, and in the middle of my walk I have to pause and hold my arms over my head, reminding myself to breathe so I don’t fall over. My stomach kicks in its two cents, and I bend forward and throw up the little contents that are in my stomach. The panic attack comes and goes, but it leaves me feeling even more exhausted.
I buy a ticket to take me back to Mercy and climb aboard the next train to arrive, hugging my bag in my lap—clutching something personal, just like the homeless man from the police lobby. It’s late. Hours have disappeared while I’ve told my story. Time well spent. Empowering, though emotionally draining. No matter how tired I may feel, I don’t dare shut my eyes. I left my half-full coffee mug in Miranda’s office, and as much as I could use the caffeine, I smirk at the thought of how irritated she’s going to be with the smell of stale coffee and the reminder of me, and my visit, there to greet her in the morning. In the midst of so much that’s awful, at least I have this one small win.
Chapter 23
Emma
It’s been sixty hours.
Six. Zero.
The doctors told us not even to consider worrying about things until we start to hit that seventy-two-hour mark.
Those numbers are arbitrary. I know they are, because they aren’t in any of my books. Nothing is for certain, and throwing out hours is just a way for doctors to buy time to find consciousness. The cases run the gamut—some people waking up immediately, others taking weeks. Science points to medians, but medians are just clusters of numbers—they don’t mean anything when the person you love is all that counts.