Don't Make a Sound (Sawyer Brooks #1)(10)
Cleo had been gang-raped during a three-day-weekend party at a fraternity house. When it was over, Cleo did everything right. She went to the hospital, told her parents, and talked to the school board. Her case went to court. The frat boys—young, rich, and privileged—stuck together like flies on sticky paper. The boys, their parents, and the media painted the victim out to be sexually promiscuous. She’d been looking for it, they said. She’d wanted it. A dozen boys came forward, all friends of the accused, to swear before the judge that she was no virgin. As if that mattered. They knew because they claimed to have been with her. The only proof the lawyer provided were pictures of Cleo’s short skirts and semi-see-through blouses, and skimpy-bathing-suit shots while on vacation with her family. It was enough for the jury to wipe their hands of the mess and let the boys off without so much as a scolding. Cleo had a list of six names.
Lily had been thirty-five when she made a connection with a man through an online dating app. She met him at the restaurant and was surprised to see that he looked like his profile picture. She was even more surprised that the conversation was good, bordering on great. He made a lot of effort to get to know her, asked all the right questions, and regaled her with childhood stories that involved the ups and downs of growing up in a big family. They talked for hours, ate, shared a bottle of wine. It wasn’t until they walked out of the restaurant that she began to feel dizzy and slightly nauseated. She knew immediately that something was terribly wrong.
Her date showed no sign of disappointment when she turned down his offer to go back to his apartment. He simply walked her to her car. While she fumbled around for her keys, he pulled out his key fob and clicked the button. The black car parked next to hers whistled. His car had not been there when she’d pulled into the parking lot earlier, which meant he must have moved it when he excused himself to go to the men’s room.
Before she could question him, her legs buckled, and he caught her in his arms, almost as if he’d been waiting for her to pass out. That was the last thing she remembered until she woke up in his bed the next morning, naked, her wrists and ankles tied to the bedposts. It was the weekend. She lived alone. Nobody would worry about her until Monday. For the next forty-eight hours, her blind date did unspeakable things to her. She fought him until 11:58 on Sunday. She knew the time because there was a clock on the wall, and she’d been staring at it throughout her ordeal. At 11:58, he untied her, dragged her into the bathroom, where he had the shower running. He washed her hair, scrubbed every inch of her body, then tossed her a towel and told her to get dressed and get out.
She went to the hospital. The police were called. She filled out a report and told them he’d forced her to shower. They used a rape kit anyway. The whole procedure was invasive and time-consuming. She went home, showered again, and went to bed. The next day, she had her locks changed and the windows in her apartment inspected. She took a week off from work and had way too much time to think, analyze, and wonder when he’d spiked her wine. She had never once left the table. Follow-up with the doctor showed genital injuries. Semen was found. The authorities talked to her “date,” and he convinced them that their time together was consensual.
The system for date-rape-drug testing didn’t help her either. The equipment used wasn’t sensitive enough to detect substances at low concentrations. Days had passed between the time Lily had been given the drug and when she arrived at the hospital.
It was over. Only it wasn’t. Not even close.
Bug. Twenty-seven. Five foot two inches. Smart. Dreadlocks, dark eyes, perfect teeth, wide smile. Cheerleader for the varsity football team. Held down by a defensive linebacker and raped by the quarterback and a wide receiver. She hoped to see them at her ten-year reunion. All The Crew did. She’d reported the football players to school authorities and had gone to the police station with her parents. The rapists were from affluent households, though. Bug was not. They were white. She was not.
Malice. Verbally and physically fucked by those she trusted most.
CHAPTER FIVE
Sawyer climbed into her car. She needed to stop by Connor’s apartment and grab some things for her trip to River Rock. But first she pulled out her cell and sent Harper a text, asking if it was okay if she slept on the couch tonight, telling her she’d explain everything when she got there. There were a half dozen missed calls from Connor and double that number of texts. She deleted all of them without bothering to read them first.
By the time Sawyer buckled her seat belt and turned on the car’s engine, her phone buzzed with a reply from Harper, letting Sawyer know she could stay the night.
On the drive, Sawyer’s mind swirled with thoughts of her sisters. Their relationship was complicated. Sawyer couldn’t find it in her heart to forgive her older sister, Harper, for abandoning her. Let it go . . . Live in the now . . . Take responsibility. All good advice she’d received over time but not at all helpful. The thing that stung her most was that Harper was too messed up to talk about those dark days, holding them deep inside as if she thought that might make them disappear.
To be honest, it was a wonder the three of them had come from the same two people. Harper had been a wild child who had since morphed into a cleaning fanatic and control freak. Aria was a worrier who shied away from conflict, intent on keeping everyone around her satisfied. Although many people pierced their bodies as a form of expression, Aria once admitted to Sawyer that she did it as a form of self-therapy and stress release.