Behind Every Lie(31)
The taxi accelerated onto a highway, droplets of rain slicing diagonally across my window. I rubbed my tired eyes, wishing instantly, intensely for my bed.
Graham caught my eye in the rearview mirror and smiled sympathetically.
“Rough night last night?” he asked.
I stared at him, my throat suddenly dry. He meant on the plane, of course, but his words caused the barbed ends of a memory to snag at the edges of my brain. I squeezed my eyes shut and nodded, trying desperately to block it out. But it was too late. My mind was already tunneling backward to the morning after I was attacked.
* * *
I woke next to a pool of vomit on the floor of my bedroom. My head felt like it had been flayed open and doused in chemicals.
“Eva! Eva?” My roommate, Holly, was hovering anxiously over me, her short, pink-streaked hair standing on end.
I tried to sit up, but a wave of nausea washed over me. I bent at the waist and vomited again.
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
“Come on, let’s get you washed off.”
Holly helped me into the shower and sprayed the vomit off me. “Where’d you go last night?” she asked.
I stared at her, horrified as brief flashes came back to me.
“Holly,” I whispered, “I think I was raped.”
She drove me straight to the police station after that. We were whisked into an interview room, given a hot cup of tea. After about ten minutes a detective came in. He was old, with sagging jowls and a permanent frown between his eyebrows. His badge read DETECTIVE ANDERSON.
“Rough night last night?” he asked, leaning against the edge of the table.
Holly jumped up, her face blotchy with fury. “Are you fucking kidding? A rough night is finding out your car’s been towed or that your friend threw up on your couch. Not realizing you’ve been raped!”
Anderson put his hands up. “Of course. Sorry.” He turned to me. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
I swallowed hard, feeling like a fish bone was stuck in my throat. “We were out last night. At a club.”
He jotted something in a notepad.
“I got really dizzy really fast and everything started spinning, so I went outside. I threw up in the alley. I don’t remember much after that. Someone was talking to me. A man. He said he’d help me get home. And then we were in his apartment.…”
I closed my eyes, trying to remember.
“Did you know him?”
“I don’t think so. I can’t remember.”
“Do you remember anything about him? Hair color, facial hair, did he speak with an accent?”
“I can’t remember.”
“But you remember having sex?”
“Sort of. I couldn’t move. It was like I was paralyzed.”
“What about his address? Where he lived?”
I shook my head, tears burning. “No.”
“Maybe the neighborhood?”
“She was obviously drugged!” Holly jumped in. “That’s why she can’t remember.”
“Look. We can run a rape kit, do blood tests. But you said you’ve showered, right? And any drugs will be long gone from your system. So evidence will be …” He shrugged. I could tell by his face he didn’t believe me.
I stood and moved toward the door, stumbling over Holly’s purse. “Never mind.”
I decided never to speak of it again. Not talking about it became a protective measure. Maybe he was right. I didn’t know what had really happened. I couldn’t remember. Besides, I wanted to block it off, box it up, bury it.
Until the day I saw that little pink line on the pregnancy test.
* * *
Graham pulled off the highway and veered around a massive roundabout, picking his way through thickening traffic. A sign fixed to a flight of stairs labeled the station below: Old Street Station.
The street throbbed with traffic, people walking urgently on the sidewalks as they spoke into their phones. Ethnic restaurants, vintage clothing stores, and hipster cafés lined the streets. A kaleidoscope of bright murals and street art adorned nearly every wall. The vibe was both dingy and hip, a buzzy urban feel like Seattle’s Pioneer Square, only grittier.
Graham pulled up outside a pale, sandblasted brick building. Downstairs was a trendy-looking coffee shop with a neon sign flashing BEAN GRINDER above the door. He pointed to a series of sash windows above it. “You’re in them flats up there.”
I paid and signed the receipt. Graham pointed at my hand. “Hey, I’m a lefty too.”
“Yeah?”
“You know, most kangaroos are lefties.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Yep. I read it in my son’s National Geographic magazine.”
“Huh.” I handed him his pen. “Maybe it’s because they’re on the other side of the world.”
Graham laughed and held out a business card. “You need a taxi, give me a call, love.”
I waved good-bye, then circled the building until I found the entrance at the side. I used Jacob’s keys to let myself in and climbed the stairs to the top floor.
Jacob’s flat was large and open-planned with high ceilings and exposed blond-brick walls soaring over pale hardwood floors. To my left a bank of windows overlooked the busy street below, and a cream leather sofa sat in front of a flat-screen TV. To my right was a small white-and-steel kitchen. The walls were filled with pale, rather abstract art. It was all very modern and beautiful, but not at all what I would’ve pictured Jacob buying.