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Too just. Just not enough.
Yet here I am, accompanying my best friend to report a crime that happened long ago, with few hopes of finding justice.
My cell phone rings, and I pull it out of my back pocket. It’s Megan. “Hey, girl. We’ve just entered the police station.”
“I’m coming in to find you.”
I frown, slow down. “Everything okay?”
“Yes.”
“Did Zay sleep okay?” Tyler renamed him, not to confuse him with Zane, and the nickname stuck.
“He ate and burped and slept, and I left him with Audrey. I want to be there with you.”
“Sure.” I breathe out. “Meet you inside.”
A weight lifts off my chest at the thought of her being by my side. By the time we ask and find our way to the right office, I manage to breathe almost normally again.
Because yeah, I don’t just dislike police stations. The memories associated with them are hell, and my body can’t fucking accept the fact that this isn’t the same time, the same situation.
The same horror. That this isn’t about me, but about Zane.
Or it does get it, and the thought of what happened to Zane, the things he’s about to report, is sending my nervous system into overdrive.
“Is everything all right?” Dakota asks, holding on to Zane’s hand like he’s a lifeline—or maybe he’s the one clutching hers so hard his knuckles are white.
“Yeah. Megan is coming, too. She wants to be here.”
Dakota gives me a quick smile, turns to Zane. “The more the better, right?”
He says nothing, his eyes kinda blank. Fuck, I hope he won’t have a flashback now. I’ve been afraid of that ever since he found out the guy living in that house in Madison, our town, is indeed Kenneth Shaw.
I figure it’s only a matter of time before his mind flips out on him and drags him kicking and screaming back
into the past.
One more reason I decided to tag along today. Least I can do is look out for him, and help if he gets lost inside his own head. God knows I did it plenty of times for Tyler, especially when he first came back and he kept having those episodes.
Returning to the place where you were hurt, seeing the people who used to be part of that past, can easily flip the switch and throw you into a memory. I bet Zane is hanging by a thread to sanity right now, and recounting what happened to him won’t help any.
Word to the wise regarding shrinks and their fucking couches: psychoanalysis can help, but it can also fuck you up even worse. You can ask me about it. It’s how I ended up hooked on pills, and lemme tell ya, withdrawal was a bitch.
So I’m watching over Zane while I explain to the officer why we’re there, and keeping an eye out for Megan.
“What do you want to report?” the nice lady officer asks, and Zane steps forward, his face white but his eyes determined.
No matter how I worry about him, he’s a tough motherfucker. Proof being that he’s here.
“I want to report a man,” he says, “who abused me years ago, when I was a kid.”
The officer looks up at him. Zane’s over six feet tall, the Mohawk making him seem taller, with wide shoulders and the edges of his tattoo sleeves peeking under his jacket.
“How many years ago are we talking here?” she asks.
Zane shifts on his feet, his combat boots squeaking. “Dunno. Twelve, I guess?”
“You guess.” Her face pinches. “How old are you now?”
