The Night Swim(89)

Studies show that rapists tend to be repeat offenders more than other criminals. They go on to rape again, at a rate of around five rapes in their lifetime. That means the ten guilty rapists who escape, to paraphrase Sir Blackstone, might go on to rape another forty innocent women. I wonder what Sir William Blackstone would say about that?

The jurors will review the evidence and argue the merits of the case. Then they will vote until they reach a unanimous verdict. Either they will find Scott Blair guilty. Or they will find him not guilty. We will find out in the coming hours or days.

I’m Rachel Krall and this is Guilty or Not Guilty, the podcast that puts you in the jury box.





51



Hannah


Dear Rachel,

Let me start by apologizing. I promised myself that I would respect your boundaries. I’ve restrained myself. I haven’t left letters on your car or anywhere else intrusive for some time. Yet here I am, downstairs in the lobby of your hotel, writing this note. I promise that I’ll leave it just outside your door, followed by a loud knock to ensure that you’ll get out of bed to collect it.

I’m ready to meet you, Rachel. Tonight. At the Morrison’s Point jetty. I’ll go there as soon as I drop off the letter. I know it’s late, but please come. I don’t think I can do this alone.



I know who killed Jenny. I’d tell the cops, but after watching the Scott Blair rape trial unravel, I’m not confident a jury would ever convict. The lack of forensic evidence and the passage of time would work against a successful prosecution. There’s one witness from the night Jenny was killed. A reluctant witness. A dying witness. You led me to him when I followed your car to the Golden Vista retirement home.

Rick saw Jenny’s killer. He told me so when I spoke with him this morning, after he was discharged from the hospital wing. At first Rick pleaded ignorance, but he eventually relented. He said that it didn’t much matter anymore if the truth came out. Apparently, he has weeks to live. “They can’t do anything to me in hell.” He laughed dryly. And then he told me what he remembered from that night. He told me the name of the boy he’d seen running away from the beach.

Thanks to Rick’s recollections, and my own hazy memories, I believe he’s right. The only way to find out for sure is to ask him straight out. To ask Jenny’s killer. His confession might be all we get.

Below is the letter that I’ve been writing to you over the past few days, about what happened the night that Jenny died. I wrote it in fits and starts, in different pens, and in handwriting that changed with my moods. I hope it’s legible enough for you to read.



* * *



After that drunk boy disconnected my call, he smashed the phone with the receiver until it was a mess of wires. When he was done, he kicked the glass phone booth door until it shattered. All the while, he held my upper arm so tightly that it was bruised for days afterward. My feet were bare. By the time he’d dragged me across the concrete toward the beach, the soles of my feet were slashed and embedded with glass.

He threw me on the sand next to Jenny. She was lying on the ground near the fire as the boys stood over her, drinking.

“Your little sister came to tell you that you need to go home.” He laughed. Jenny stared at me. The numb expression on her face turned to panic.

“She’s the kid sister,” said a drunk voice from the dark. “What do we do with her?”

“Let’s take a look at her. Maybe she’s old enough.”

I felt a hand grab my chest. “Flat as a pancake,” he said. “Definitely underage.”

He flicked up the skirt of my dress. I tried to pull it down. It made him laugh. He flicked it up again. I grabbed the folds of my dress and held them tightly to my body.

“What do we have here?” He pushed my hands away and pulled my skirt up anyway so they could all see my underwear.

“Hello Kitty panties. Such pretty panties.” He pulled me toward him and whispered into my ear with his stale drunken breath, “Do you know what a grown-up kitty is called?” I shook my head.

“Please. I’ll do whatever you want. Leave her alone. She’s just a kid.” Jenny’s voice was hoarse.

“I don’t do little girls,” said one. “That’s disgusting.”

“What do you think, Bobby?” the boy holding me called out. “Which do you prefer, big sister or little sister? You haven’t shown any interest in banging the big sister. Maybe you’d like to give the little one a go.”

“Leave her alone,” shouted Bobby.

“Are you sweet on her, Bobby?” the boy teased. “I always figured you liked them young,” he said, flicking up my skirt again and laughing as I tried to hold it down.

Bobby dived at the boy and pushed him to the ground. Those boys were strong, but nothing compared to Bobby Green in a rage. He punched one of them until he’d turned his face into a bloody pulp. One of the others kicked him in the ribs to get him to stop. They dived on him and rolled together in the direction of the bonfire until I heard Bobby scream. I didn’t know why until I smelled burning human flesh. After that, everything was a blur. There were panicked shouts about taking him to the hospital and howls of agonized pain from Bobby. They carried him to the truck. Someone ran back and kicked sand over the bonfire to douse the flames. It was the one who’d been driving the truck that very first day.