The Last Housewife (11)

At the end of a long line of questions, Detective Dorsey sighed.

I bit. “What?”

He gestured at his legal pad, where he’d scribbled notes. “There’s not much to go on.”

“What do you mean?” Clem asked. “She just told you every detail. You have his name and address. Go arrest him.”

“There were no witnesses to the alleged assault,” Dorsey said. “No one to confirm Ms. Hargrove’s accusation.”

“How many times are there witnesses to a rape?” I asked. “Seems rare.”

The detective narrowed his eyes at me, then turned back to Laurel. “You can go to the hospital and get a kit done, but I’m warning you, it’s invasive as hell. Some girls say it’s like being raped all over again. And you’ve waited an awfully long time. Would’ve been better if you’d reported this last night, while it was fresh.”

Laurel closed her eyes.

“The truth is, and I’m sorry to have to say this, but you didn’t yell at the guy, according to your own story. You let him sit there and drink a beer. You didn’t run… You fell back asleep. I bet this Andrew kid would be shocked to know you think he raped you.”

My spine zipped straight. Laurel’s eyes were still closed, but she was crying.

“She said no,” Clem spit out. “Of course he knew.”

Detective Dorsey stood up. “If you want my advice—because I’d hate to see you go to court and have an emotional experience, just to lose—if you lay out the details to an objective audience, they’re going to have a hard time convicting. We’re talking about a boy’s life hanging in the balance.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said. An old anger unleashed itself. “You’re telling Laurel to ignore what happened?”

“Watch your tone,” the detective snapped. “What I’m telling Ms. Hargrove is that the details of her story don’t make a strong case. She should take it as a lesson—”

“A lesson?” This time, I raised my voice.

I could feel the eyes of the other officers turn to us. I kept my gaze locked on the knot of Dorsey’s red tie.

A flush crept down his neck. “Consider this a lesson in being an adult. If you go to a boy’s house dressed like an invitation, take shots and flirt with him all night, give every indication of wanting to sleep with him, what do you think he’s going to do? Ms. Hargrove can’t go crying wolf over every sexual encounter she regrets, or else cops would spend all our time chasing hungover college kids after a bad lay.”

“I can’t believe how unprofessional you’re being.” Clem stood and pulled Laurel with her. “We want to talk to your boss.”

Detective Dorsey waved a hand. “Oh yeah? You seeing a lot of sympathy here for a bunch of spoiled Whitney girls who got their first knock and want to make a federal case of it?”

We looked around. Farthest from us, the officers were going about their business. But closer, they looked back with steely expressions. They were all men, I realized. We were the only women in the room.

My anger died in a sudden gust of fear.

“Come on, Laurel,” I said quietly, pulling her away from the desk. “We’ll figure out another way.”

We left as fast as we could, the three of us power walking out of the station, back into the tree-lined neighborhood. Laurel was still crying, but it didn’t slow her. I touched a hand to her shoulder and said, “It’s going to be okay,” because there was nothing else to do.

Out of nowhere, Clem took off in a burst of speed.

“Hey!” I shouted. “Where are you going?”

She didn’t answer. Laurel and I stared at each other for a moment, then Laurel took off, too. I couldn’t let them leave me, so I started running after them, and then we were three wild girls streaking down a shaded street, chasing something or being chased, impossible to tell.

Clem was so blazing fast we couldn’t keep pace with her for long, but it felt good to run. To make my feet pound and my lungs burn. Eventually, Laurel and I dropped to a jog, limping after Clem.

We were too far behind to stop her when we realized she was going back to the house. By the time we caught up, she’d picked up a thick branch from someone’s yard and was pounding it against the living room window, making startling, insistent thwacks.

“What are you doing?” Laurel shouted, struggling to get her breath back.

“If the cops aren’t going to do shit, I’ll do it myself,” Clem yelled, swinging the branch at the window, where it hit with a sharp clap.

“Stop,” I hissed. “They’ll come out.” There were more cars in the driveway than when we’d left. The boys were definitely home.

Clem turned to us, chest heaving, face red and sweaty. “I’m not scared of them.” She swung the branch again. “Andrew, you rapist! Come face us!” She beat at the glass, and suddenly, it cracked—only a hairline, but it was all she needed. Clem smashed the branch like a pole against the window until it shattered.

Laurel pressed her face into my shoulder. “Oh my god, they’re going to call the cops. They’re going to come outside, they’re going to see me—”

“Assholes!” Clem moved to front door, kicking it. “You think you can get away with it?”