Where the Blame Lies(10)

“You don’t want it, Josie? Don’t want to be f-fucked like a whore? Why not? You let those other men d-do it. I’ve watched you. W-watched you take them home. Watched them leave in the m-morning with not more than a wave over their shoulders, not m-more than a thanks for the m-memories, you cheap slut. Even the one with a w-wife. I’ve n-noticed the tan line on his ring finger. You m-must have s-seen it too. You’re not very discriminating, are y-you? Cheap. You’re so f-fucking cheap.” He was talking fast, his breathing harsher. Josie clenched her eyes shut, forcing her sobs back, willing herself to get it together. Stay calm.

He pulled off her shorts with a grunt. She sobbed, yanking at her shackles uselessly, letting her head fall back against the cement wall behind her with a jarring thud. She clenched her eyes shut when she heard his zipper, her sobs turning to wails. “Am I d-different than them, Josie? Not g-good enough for you? Why? Is it b-because I see who you are? Is that why, J-Josie? Did you not wear these r-red panties for me, you slut?” He ripped her underwear and used his knee to part her thighs. She clenched her teeth as he penetrated her, moving fast, his grunts loud against her ear, the fabric of his ski mask soaking up her tears. “This is what you w-want, isn’t it? I’m just g-giving you what you l-like,” he panted.

When he came, it was in silence.

Her soul died quietly too.

She didn’t look—couldn’t look—as he pulled himself off her, standing, the sound of his zipper loud in the otherwise quiet, empty room. There was a crack on the ceiling. It looked like a lightning strike. She wished it would strike her down. Why me? she wondered, dazedly. Why had she wished to be struck down, instead of wishing for him to be hit by a molten spear of electricity? Interesting. She’d just been raped. He was the one who needed to be punished. And yet she was the one who wanted to die.

When she raised her head, she saw that he was standing in a ray of muted light streaming in from the small window. His head was raised toward the pane of glass and he appeared pensive. For a moment he looked like a painting, something unreal. A sight you might come upon in some enchanted forest where an evil spell had been cast. Josie wondered if the drug he’d given her was still working in her system. Or maybe she was in shock. Maybe both. He turned his head, the mask moving as though he was smiling.

“I’ll need a bathroom,” she finally said, her voice slightly slurred, misery lacing her tone.

He turned then and was quiet for a moment as he looked at her. “You really are a m-mess, aren’t you?” He sighed, shook his head. “I’ll get you a bucket.”

A bucket?

“I’m-I’m hungry too.” She needed food to soak up whatever was still coursing through her veins. She needed to be able to think straight if she was going to get out of this nightmare.

He kept staring at her, tilting his head slightly. She had the notion he was smiling under the mask. “Yeah, I b-bet. It hurts to be hungry, doesn’t it? I know about that, Josie. S-someday I’m going to have to tell you about m-my upbringing.” He shook his head. “Not a story for the faint of heart. N-Not at all.”

She stared at him. She didn’t know what to say. He sighed again. “I’ll b-be back.” He moved toward the door. That walk, shoulders rounded, slightly stooped, as though he was trying to make himself smaller, less noticeable. Or at least, that’s how she’d always thought of it when she’d seen him at her apartment building. Timid. Graceless. It was him all right. She searched her memory for his name. Marshall. That was it. She didn’t recall his last name though. And she had no earthly idea why he was doing this. Did he feel rejected? That must be it. He’d seen her bring men home and felt personally dismissed by her? And she supposed she had acted dismissively toward him. She’d always been nice to him though . . . never unkind. Never.

He walked out of the small room, and she heard the sound of the lock sliding into place on the other side of the door. She leaned her head back again, gently this time, and drew her knees to her chest. She wanted to crawl inside herself and hide. Hide from the way she felt—filthy, defiled, terrified, alone. She wept silently, tears streaking down her face as she screamed wordlessly inside her own mind.

Why? Why? Why?





CHAPTER FOUR


Zach breathed in the peppermint oil smeared under his nose, stepping up to the body that lay prone on the table in Cathlyn Harvey’s examination room. He’d planned to be there by eight, but she’d called his cell at six a.m. and told him she had something for him. He’d called Jimmy, taken a three-minute shower, and been out the door five minutes after getting the call.

The door opened and Jimmy walked in, looking disheveled and as tired as Zach felt.

“Right on time,” Cathlyn said, shooting Jimmy a small smile. “Nice to see you, James.”

“Dr. Harvey.”

She shot him a look. “Meeting like this?” She nodded at the dead body on the gurney between them. “Call me Cathlyn.”

He gave her crooked smile. “Can’t argue with that.”

“What’d you find?” Zach asked, anxious to know anything that could give them a direction to move in today.

Cathlyn cleared her throat, using her gloved hand to point to the girl’s thigh, or what had once been her thigh and was now bone only partially covered by decayed flesh. “Words, carved so deep a few letters went through to the femur. Here,” she said and they bent closer, looking at what she was showing them. Zach saw scratches on the white bone, but couldn’t make out any words. “I used a magnifying glass and shot a couple of pictures.” She reached over to the table behind them and picked up a stack of photos, handing them to Zach.