The Memory of You (Sanctuary Sound #1)(76)
Was she afraid to tell him? Had she told anyone, or was she ashamed, like some rape victims who somehow blamed themselves? Victims who’d felt broken by the brutal violation—scarred inside and out. But Steffi wasn’t broken. She was vibrant. She’d started a business. She was physically fit and vital, with ongoing social relationships with friends and family. He hoped he was wrong . . . but his instincts were sharp, thanks to his experience with criminals and their victims.
Could her brain have blocked the memory? Was that why she couldn’t remember anything during the brief dissociative states?
He’d heard about this kind of thing from his colleagues—about rape victims whose minds protected them from traumatic memories. Defense lawyers loved it because spotty memories made victim testimony less credible. But the thought that Steffi might’ve been raped by two strangers in an alley made him gag. Somewhere out there, those two fuckers had gotten away with it and had gone on—possibly harming others—while she’d been suffering, most likely on her own.
In a roundabout way, he might be responsible for what happened—if not to Steffi, precisely, then to other women who’d been victimized by repeat offenders he’d helped put back on the street. It was always a risk, one he knew well. But until tonight, he’d been able to detach and justify his choices by wrapping himself in the protection of the constitutional rights of every citizen.
He released the steering wheel and dabbed at his eyes, praying he was wrong about all of it. That he was grasping at straws to avoid something else he’d rather not consider—the idea that he’d fallen for her again when she wasn’t sure she wanted him.
After a quick glance at himself in the rearview mirror, he scrubbed his face with his hands to rub away his discomfort. He opened the car door and jogged beneath the canopy of leaves to go inside. When he entered the house, the aroma of buttered popcorn told him his parents had watched a movie with Emmy.
“You’re home early.” His mom looked up from her knitting as Ryan tossed his keys on the entry table.
Ryan nodded at her and his dad, whose gaze barely strayed from the Blue Bloods episode playing at least ten decibels too loud. He needed to move out of this house before he went deaf.
“She’s got to be up early for work,” Ryan fibbed. He composed his expression, hoping to evade his mother’s hawkish instincts. “Emmy asleep?”
“She went up about half an hour ago.” His mom pretended to return her attention to her project even as she asked, “Did you have a nice time?”
“Sure.” He started toward the stairs. “See you in the morning.”
“Ryan . . . is that all you have to say?” His mom gaped at him.
“Molly, he’s a grown man, for chrissakes. Leave him be.” His dad patted her leg and waved Ryan away.
Ryan took advantage of the moment his mother glared at her husband to finish his climb up the stairs. No light emanated from beneath Emmy’s door. He slowly turned the handle, careful not to let it click, and then eased the door open to peek in on her.
“Hi, Daddy,” came a loud whisper from her bed. He should’ve known her elephant ears would hear him creaking up the stairwell.
He crossed the room and leaned down to kiss her head. She wrapped his neck in a tight squeeze. He didn’t let go for a long time, taking more comfort than he was giving tonight. “Did you have fun with Memaw and Pops?”
“We watched Frozen.”
“Nice.” He wasn’t sorry to miss a seventh viewing of that one. “It’s late. Get some sleep.”
She propped herself up on her elbows. “What did you do, Dad?”
“I ate pizza.” He hadn’t told Emmy about his date because he didn’t want her to get too invested before he even had the chance to see what might develop. As far as she knew, he’d simply gone out with a friend tonight. Not exactly a lie.
“That’s all you did?”
He was grateful the dark room hid him wincing at the memory of Steffi’s panicked response to his touch. “Pretty much.”
“That sounds boring.” She slumped back against her pillow. “You should’ve stayed home and watched the movie. We made popcorn.”
“Next time.” He kissed her again, grateful she was years away from the age when he’d have to really worry about her becoming the victim of some kind of sexual assault. “See you in the morning.”
He closed the door and went to the bathroom. His innocent gums got a harsh scrubbing as more unpleasant thoughts wormed through his mind.
If Steffi had been sexually assaulted, she didn’t owe him the truth about something so deeply personal. But a little part of him—the part that she’d hurt when she’d shut him out before—smarted. Another part knew that the failure of both of his love relationships grew from a lack of true intimacy. He couldn’t accept less than that this time around, which made it a tricky situation.
Steffi stonewalled him anytime he brought up the incident. How could they rebuild anything worthwhile on half truths and a lack of trust? How did she expect to work through her painful memories—the ones that commandeered her mind and body from time to time—if she never told anyone what had happened? Never talked about it? And if she didn’t remember, then she needed therapy . . . no excuses.
His work had shown him that those who attended counseling had the best shot at recovery. But Lockwoods didn’t talk about their feelings, especially not with shrinks. Convincing her to seek help would be harder than getting Val to drop her alimony demand.