*
When Addie Donovan was not found by Saturday, the police announced that they were working with nearby law enforcement agencies to broaden the search, but that was little consolation to the people of Prairie Creek. The newspaper website reported that some folks were beginning to lock their doors, kids were having nightmares, and the sheriff’s office was advising young people and women to travel in groups, especially at night.
Ruth was feeling the crunch at home, with Penny worrying that a bad man was lurking in the cluster of bushes across the street from their house. “What if he’s living there, watching me from the bushes?” Penny asked one night as Ruth sat in bed beside her, reading yet another chapter of Junie B. Jones aloud to soothe her daughter. “What if he catches me and takes me away, the way he kidnapped Addie?”
Those damned bushes! Ruth had been attracted to the rental home because it faced a tall wall of trees that allowed privacy from the small park beyond it, but now both she and Penny were beginning to see potential danger in each dark space.
“You’re safe in our home,” Ruth assured her, not wanting to reveal any more facts than Penny needed to know. It wasn’t easy to mask her own fear and insecurity, but she didn’t want her daughter to be traumatized by this. “Addie went riding alone, something you will never do.”
“But I still want to learn to ride.”
“I know, pumpkin. You’re all signed up for lessons. You and Jessica start this week.”
“Do you think it’s safe?”
From the mouths of babes . . . “You’ll be with an instructor the whole time, at the Dillinger ranch, where people will be around.” She rubbed her daughter’s thin shoulder and kissed her forehead. “Totally safe.”
“So maybe I can be a cowgirl after all.”
Ruth smiled, thinking that it was an odd goal for the daughter of a therapist and a software engineer, but Penny had always taken to the horses and animals whenever they’d visited here. Such a country girl! Sometimes it was the little surprises from her daughter that reminded Ruth of the light in the world.
That week, Ruth received the first call on the hotline. It rang through to her cell phone late Thursday night as she was washing up for bed. Fortunately, Penny was fast asleep. Suddenly alert, Ruth blotted her face and answered the call.
“This is Ruth, and you’ve reached the Sexual Assault Support Line.”
There was silence on the line, a heavy silence that made it clear someone was struggling, suffering.
“I know this is hard, but you need to tell me what happened to you,” Ruth said. “I’ve been there myself. You can talk about anything you want if it helps you get started. Tell me about the weather, your pet turtle, your favorite kind of music.”
“You can call me Lily.”
“Lily, I’m glad you called. It takes a lot of courage to do the research to find someone like me. But it takes even more courage to make the call.”
“I’m not brave. I’m a coward.”
“Why do you say that, Lily?”
“Because I didn’t turn him in. He raped me, he kidnapped me and . . .” Her voice cracked with a sob. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
“No rush,” Ruth said in a calm voice. “Take a breath. Take all the time you need. I’ll still be here.”
After a moment, Lily went on. Guided by Ruth, she told her story. One minute she was hanging out down by the creek; the next minute he was there, dragging her away to his lair, some old hunting shack in the wilderness. Once in captivity, she was raped, forced to let him use her body so that he could release his sex drive and escape arrest “out there,” he had told her.
“You’re calling on a phone, so I’m assuming you got away from him?”
“Yes, but I feel so guilty that he’s still out there. I know it’s terrible, but I couldn’t stick around to report him. I wasn’t the only one.”
“What do you mean?”
“I had to get away, I couldn’t stay!!”
“Many of us don’t have the resources or strength to go after an attacker,” Ruth said. “It’s not your fault, Lily.”
A heavy pause. Ruth sensed the woman’s high emotion and silent tears.
“I need to go, and . . . I’m sorry I bothered you,” Lily said glumly. “Talking about this won’t solve anything.”
“But talking about it can help,” Ruth assured her. “Talk therapy is an effective way of working through issues.”
“It won’t help. Nothing helps.” And then the line went dead.
Ruth exhaled heavily. She noted the call and content in her log, hoping that the woman would call back. She had a bad feeling about her comment that she wasn’t the only one. Did she know of more victims?
*
On Sunday, Ruth joined her mother to hear her father deliver the sermon at the Pioneer Church, a newly rebuilt edifice that used to be on Kincaid land before it was deeded over to the church. Truth be told, it was only the second time Ruth had heard her father speak from the pulpit since she’d returned, as she preferred to attend the Unitarian Church, where the mission was more about living together in peace than damning the errant soul to hell. But today she had come with a mission of her own. Her mother had promised to introduce Ruth to Addie Donovan’s parents, regular patrons of the Pioneer’s Sunday services.
At the door, they stepped out of the bright sunshine to be greeted by two men in the cool, shadowed vestibule.
“Hey, Bev.” An older man with a bulbous nose and a rubbery smile, whom Ruth recognized as the pharmacist, handed them programs. “Come to see Rob today?”
“Haven’t missed a Sunday with my husband yet,” her mother said, chatting with the man.
When Ruth turned to the other man, she realized he was closer to her age and—and extremely familiar. Tall with broad shoulders, thick dark hair that curled off to one side, and clear eyes that seemed to see deep inside her.
She had heard he’d left town, but here he was, the object of her teenage fantasies: Ethan Starr.
Her throat tightened as he handed her a paper fan with an advertisement for the Mercer Funeral Home printed on one side, and she noticed his hands, which were calloused, with long, graceful fingers. Oh, thank God, her instincts about him had been right. She had only been in a discussion with him a handful of times, but she had sensed kindness in his low, gravelly voice.
“Would you like a fan, Ruthie?” he asked in that deep voice, which had grown sexier with age. “Once the place fills up, it’s going to be hot in there.”
“You remember me?” She accepted a fan, noticing the navy button-down shirt and khaki pants. Not quite the bronc rider she remembered.
“You were the ghost girl I passed every day as I was leaving the chem lab in senior year of high school. I could always count on you to say hello, but you disappeared pretty fast after that.”
She was surprised and tickled that he knew her. “You were a big rodeo star back then.”
He smiled. “I was out of my league.”