The Memory of You (Sanctuary Sound #1)(96)
He turned it over, finding no note, return address, or anything else to identify its contents or who delivered it. The last thing he wanted was another unexpected surprise in his shitty day.
Using the letter opener from the desk set Val had given him when he got his first job, he opened the envelope and pulled out a police report. A quick scan of the header proved it to be the police report. The one he’d asked Billy to filch before he rescinded his request.
He slammed it facedown on his desk and stared blankly at the wall. His entire body went cold while his heart gathered speed in his chest. He froze like a man in the middle of a high-wire act when a stiff wind blew. What had he done? Reading the file would be a gross violation of Steffi’s privacy. It’d transform him into what he’d always disdained—someone who believed that the ends justified the means.
Damn it, he regretted having the option to confirm his worst fear. If Billy had planned to ignore Ryan’s wishes, he should’ve absolved Ryan from making the choice by simply blurting out the information. Now Ryan would have to cross the line if he wanted the answer.
Staring at the back of the report, Ryan had never felt more alone. He couldn’t talk it through with anyone—save Billy. Couldn’t ask his mother for advice. Couldn’t predict how Steffi would react to the evidence.
He tossed the file in the trash and stared at it.
His thoughts churned, starting with Claire’s concerns that Steffi’s behavior was affecting their business. He sifted through his own experience with the staggering range of her mental lapses: small zone-outs in the backyard and by the lake, her freak-out when things between them got physical, and the fainting spell that caused her to lose track of Emmy.
If there was an answer in that report that would lead to healing—to a healthier, safer life for her and for them—he owed it to everyone to discover the truth. In this extreme case, perhaps the ends did justify the means.
Before he could talk himself out of it again, he snatched the file from the trash and flipped the pages over.
He’d read thousands of police reports, known dozens of sexual assault claims. Seen photographs and descriptions of the injuries inflicted on those victims. Reviewed the evidence collected by sexual assault evidence kits.
In all prior cases, it had been easy to dissociate from the faceless victims. This report discussed Steffi’s brutal attack. Her body. Her injuries.
Her blood alcohol level had been elevated. The report stated she’d been highly disturbed yet groggy, with little memory of anything, including being found in the alley and put in the ambulance. She’d consented to letting the cops speak with the ER doctor, who said she saw physical evidence of rape, but Steffi had, in a state of bewilderment, declined the rape kit. Steffi never mentioned rape to the officer, and he didn’t suggest it so as not to taint her statement. Without a rape kit, they lacked DNA evidence to track the suspects. And with Steffi’s relative incoherence and inability to recall specific details about the perps or anything else, they had little to nothing to go on.
Ryan couldn’t push away images of her struggling to defend herself against two strange men, or her panic and rage as they forced themselves on her. He thought of the abject fear at having a gun held to one’s head, and the pain of being knocked unconscious with it so the perps could escape. The idea of her being violated, humiliated, beaten, and left unconscious proved too much for him.
He heaved, swallowing back bile, but then reached for the trash can again and threw up. He’d never be able to unsee the photographs of her swollen eye and bruising. Never stop picturing the assault. And now he wondered if he’d be able to help her be whole again. He knew nothing about helping a person recover from that kind of trauma, including whether it was even possible.
His stomach turned again, but then sorrow hardened into fury. The justice system he believed in had failed her, and nothing he could do now would change that. Maybe she’d be better off not knowing the truth if, in fact, she didn’t remember.
He inhaled slowly several times to control his racing thoughts and search for solutions. Steffi might never be “the same,” but she wasn’t broken. She’d moved on, whether through denial or repression. Could he move on in silence? Leave the truth alone and let her manage the blackouts?
It seemed too big a secret to keep. It would be between them now if he didn’t tell her what he knew. Secrets like this could destroy a relationship.
He couldn’t offer closure, but he could give her love and support. He scrolled through his contacts to find the number for Melissa Mathers, a psychiatrist he’d worked with on a few cases in Boston.
“Dr. Mathers,” she answered.
“Hi, Dr. Mathers. This is Ryan Quinn, from the PD’s office.”
“Mr. Quinn, how can I help you?”
“I’m actually calling on a personal matter. Can you spare a few minutes to give me some advice?”
“Sure.”
She remained eerily quiet while he laid out the facts of Steffi’s situation.
“I can’t offer a diagnosis based solely on what you’ve told me. It’s possible she doesn’t recall the sexual assault—or has an extremely fragmented, foggy recollection that’s more like a dream than reality. That can happen for a variety of reasons, and there’s still a lot we don’t understand about how the brain processes trauma. It’s also rare but possible for someone to dissociate from an extremely traumatic event. They will tend to use distancing language, referring to it as the ‘event’ or ‘incident.’ They’ll avoid talking about it at all costs. Her history of concussions further complicates the matter.” Melissa went into more detail about the amygdala, the prefrontal cortex, and other mechanics of what happens when your brain is in survival mode. He took notes, but his eyes kept straying to the police report, and then his stomach would burn. “I wouldn’t recommend you go charging at her with these records. Get her to a doctor who can help her access and process the memories.”