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Once again I found myself explaining the events which had occurred when I'd come home unexpectedly on one of my mom’s date nights.
“Date night?”
There it was, just as predicted. I was sick of this already. I skipped to the condensed version.
“Yes, my mother was a prostitute, you see. On Saturday nights she had a ‘date night’ where one of her tricks would come over for dinner and would spend the whole night. On this particular night I had the misfortune of coming home unexpectedly,” I took a swig of water before I continued. “Apparently her date that night was Charlie Roberts. I didn’t really get a good look at the man. Mom tried to pass me off as her little sister. Then what I’ve already told you happened after that. That's the story about the name ‘Sissy.’”
I took another long drink of water trying to wash the nasty taste of the truth about my mom out of my mouth.
“So, when you came to work at the Sinclair Stables, you didn’t know that Charlie Roberts was in fact the same man who'd molested you eight years ago?”
“That’s correct. That had happened in Radcliff, Kentucky. I'd no reason to think Charlie was the same guy from Radcliff now in Bristol, Virginia working at the same place that I was.”
“Do you find that fact more than just co-incidental, Ms. Preston?”
“I guess I haven’t thought of it as anything other than just bad luck up to this point.”
“Please continue about the night you were assaulted, Ms. Preston.”
“He just kept touching me, and calling me ‘Sissy.’ I was thrashing around in my bed, trying to get away from him, trying to push him off of the bed. I remember him saying—”
I stopped myself right there. This was something that I'd just remembered Charlie saying to me the night I was attacked. Oh God, I didn’t want this to go on the record. It was too late.
“What did he say, Ms. Preston?”
I sighed, not wanting to continue, but knowing she would badger me for withholding information if I didn’t. “He said something like ‘Sissy likes it rough.’ He asked me if I wanted him to fuck me like the boss man did in the stable that night.”
“Who was he referring to, Ms. Preston.”
Oh God, Oh God, Oh God.
“Trey Sinclair. We'd made love once in the stables back in mid-August.”
“How would Charlie Roberts have known that?” she asked.
“He would have had to have been watching us,” I replied, blushing.
“Not necessarily,” she replied, “is it possible that Mr. Sinclair boasted about having sex with you in the stables to other workers there? Perhaps bragging to the other guys, that sort of thing?”
“No,” I responded, my anger showing, “it’s not possible.”
“Why are you so certain about that, Ms. Preston?”
“Because Trey has no recollection of that night,” I answered softly. I finished relaying the rest of what I remembered about the assault that night. I told her that I'd screamed for help until his fist had knocked me unconscious. I'd awakened two days later in the hospital.
Beth Denniston rose and walked over to a box that Detective Ryan had brought into the conference room with him.
“Ms. Preston, we have some evidence here in this box that we want you to identify on the record in this investigation, please.” She pulled out the plum silk camisole top that had been cut, along with the ripped plum silk shorts.
“Do you recognize these?”
“Yes, those are the silk pajamas I had on that night in Radcliff, Kentucky when Charlie Roberts came into my bedroom when I was 13 and sexually assaulted me.”
“Do you know how these items got torn and cut?”
“The bottoms were ripped off of me. I've no idea how the top got cut.”
“Do you know how Charlie would have been in possession of these items?”
