I’m her guardian angel after all. It’s my duty to ensure she’s safe.
I figured she’d freak out, then thank me in the most coldly polite way possible before she rushed off, never to be seen or heard from again. She’s not very friendly. She admitted as much on national TV. She’s closed off, doesn’t allow people in, is afraid to broaden her social circle for fear people are only curious to know the dirty details in regards to what happened to her all those years ago.
She confessed that on national television, too.
All that vulnerability, the quiet confessions, had about done me in. I knew then I could be there for her. The one who doesn’t want the lurid details of what happened to her.
I just want to help. Help Katie.
Because I know what happened. I was there. I lived it. I don’t need to hear all the dirty details. I’m an integral part of those dirty details. The only thing I’m curious about is . . . her. What makes her tick, what moves her. Does she ever laugh, or is she serious and sad all the time? What’s her favorite movie, her favorite color? Does she sigh in her sleep? Does she sleep soundly? Or does she deal with the nightmares every night?
If I’m honest with myself, I also want to know what she might feel like in my arms. Is her hair still just as soft as it was when I first met her? Would I ever get a chance to kiss her? Whisper in her ear how she makes me feel? Discover the way she tastes?
I want all of that. Every last bit. I want all of her.
And now she’s here. Beautifully simple, confident yet scared. Playing pretend and being real. I get her. I do. I’m the same. We have more in common than she’ll ever realize.
Yet all I can do is stare at her like an idiot.
“Um, would you mind . . .” Her voice drifts and she gestures with her hand back in the direction we came. If she knew I’d followed her, she’d freak. She’d have every right to. “This might sound silly, but would you, uh, walk me to my car? It’s just, after what happened, I don’t know. What if I run into those boys again? I’m not feeling very—”
“Sure, I’ll walk you to your car,” I interrupt her, my heart flipping over itself when she offers me a soft, pleased smile. “It’s no problem. I was just about to leave anyway.”
“Okay. Thank you. That’s—that would be great.” Her voice is shaky, as is her blossoming smile, and it takes everything within me to keep from reaching for her so I can cup her cheeks and smooth my fingers across her skin . . .
She starts walking and I fall into step beside her, noting how small she is compared to me. It doesn’t look like she’s grown much since the last time I saw her, but I’ve put on another six inches since I was fifteen. Nothing gave me greater satisfaction than the day I realized I was a head taller than dear old dad. I could pound that fucker into the ground if I was so inclined. Playing sports kept my head straight, kept me fucking alive until I had to give them up. But they made me stronger when I needed it, so I felt as if I could take on anything.
Everything. Including him.
Not that it mattered. By the time I could’ve taken him, he was in jail, locked up tight and with no way out. He was done. I’d ruined him. So did Katie. I helped her escape and for that unforgivable sin, I became his enemy.
I went to his trial, but it was hard to listen to all of that. Those cold, hard facts, repeated again and again. The endless barrage of photos of dead girls who looked a lot like Katie. Blood and gore and slashed throats and violated bodies, flashing on the screen again and again as the prosecuting attorney stood with her arms crossed, her expression grim. She’d made that juicy little slide show, ending it with the infamous image of Katie being led out of the police department wearing the too-large matching gray sweats, teary-eyed and devastated.
The jurors shuddered in their seats. Gasps of horror rang out, echoing as the sound bounced off the tall ceiling. The image of Katie filled me with such violent rage, such overwhelming nausea, I snuck out, ducking low as I slid across the bench, practically crawling out of there on my hands and knees, I was so hunched over.
Even though in the end I testified against him, I didn’t want him to see me. Didn’t want him to think I was deserting him or worse, that I was some sort of * who couldn’t handle it.
Pussy, he’d spit at me after a drunken bender. Fucking * who likes to eat dick.
I’d dealt with those words being thrown at me again and again. I’d come to wonder if he was the one who liked to eat dick and projected his feelings on to me. Had to throw that theory out the window when I found out he’d raped, beaten, and murdered a seemingly endless list of girls.