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“We can go get them tomorrow,” Bobbi said. “You look exhausted.”
Ali sat at the kitchen table, holding a mug of ginger tea Nana had made her when she heard Ali vomiting. “Can we go now if you don’t mind? I think I could use a change of scenery.”
“Are you sure? Maybe Cornell could get the police—”
“No,” Ali said. “He’s got a game tomorrow. I need a car. I don’t want to wait.”
The hour-long drive it took to Hopperville’s police station was silent. Ali kept her head turned, resting it on the window. Bobbi, who was typically only quiet while sleeping, didn’t say a thing, and Ali knew she must have thought the smooth ride on the highway had lulled her to sleep.
But Ali’s eyes were wide open, and she only blinked when it was absolutely necessary. Because Ali feared if she closed them—even for a second—she would see more of what only felt like a living nightmare.
I never got out of the car, she thought, her palms beginning to sweat. Graham got out of the car. In her mind, she could see him walking toward the front porch of the dark, empty house. She could hear the gravel crunching beneath his feet when she put her hand on the gear, putting the car into reverse. I have a concussion. A bad one. This is some sort of weird mental projection thing.
“Al?” Bobbi said gently. “We’re here.”
Ali straightened as her mother’s cell phone rang. “You get that. I can go in myself.”
“Don’t be silly—”
“Mom, it’s fine,” Ali said, unclicking her seatbelt and reaching for the door.
Hopperville’s police station was as quiet as the town. Two officers manned the front desk—one woman on the phone and a man glancing down at a computer.
“Can I help you?” he asked, glancing up aimlessly before doing a double-take.
Ali tilted her head down so that her hair covered her angry, bruised cheek, but there wasn’t much she could do about the stitches along her hairline. “I need a copy of a police report from my car accident.” She cleared her throat. “It happened on Monday night on Broad Meadow Lane.”
The man smiled apologetically. “Do you have ID?”
Ali pulled her wallet from the pocket of Cornell’s sweatshirt, sliding it across the desk.
“I’ll get you a copy. Just give me a few minutes. Have a seat.” He motioned to the chairs lining the wall.
When she went to slowly sit in the chair, her hands instinctively went to her lower back, holding the jeans that, with the few days of minimal eating, had already begun to lose their grip on her waist.
And she paused mid-squat, grasping them tightly.
The fingertips of the hand she managed to bring down throbbed as she clutched at her leggings, but he yanked and pulled harder than she could hold on. Everything about him was more than she was, his height, his weight, his strength—his determination.
“Don’t,” she choked out a cry as rough denim scraped against the skin of her backside. “Please, don’t.” But with all her might, with all the twists and turns of her hips, it made no difference. The tight fabric bunched angrily as it tangled with her underwear, cutting angrily into her skin.
The tears streamed down her face with such force she could have sworn it was pouring rain. Her chest ached from the weight of his own, pushing against her back, grinding her into the hood of the car. What little air she could suck in between yells and cries burned as she gasped it down.
“Miss. Whitaker?”
Ali’s eyes shot to the police officer who held out papers and her ID.
“Are you alright?”
The look on his face and the feel of the pants in her hand made Ali realize she was still hovering over the chair. She straightened quickly, cringing from the sharp movement, and took the report from him. “Thank you.”
The officer tilted his head, his brows knitting together. “Are you sure you’re alright?”
Ali nodded because her mouth was clamped shut, trying to hold the panicked breaths from escaping. She opened the door quickly and could no longer hold them in when it shut behind her. Ali had to lean forward from their power, placing her hands on her thighs. But her grip on her legs startled her, and Ali jolted up.
His hands were everywhere—somehow piping hot and bone-chillingly cold at the same time as they ran up and down her legs, between her thighs, grabbing and pulling against her clenches that grew weaker by the second. His forceful presence was exhausting her.
The smell of him nauseating.
