My doorknob rattled. He was testing it. He would give up, turn around now, surely. He would not break the lock. This was not personal. A dozen burglaries occur every night of the week in the District of Columbia. He would grab whatever burglars come to grab—a camera, my laptop, an expensive and never-used tennis racket?—and then he would go back to wherever he had come from.
Another creak. Retreating footsteps. He had turned around, was tracking back down the hall, away from me. I slumped. Air slammed into my chest, sweet air, as though I were surfacing after a long time -underwater; I had not realized I’d been holding my breath.
Then the crash. The deafening, savage, booming crash of a man running at the door, lowering his shoulder, trying to break it in. Oh, sweet Jesus.
There was only one other way out. My bedroom window looks onto the street. The drop is maybe ten feet, maybe more, onto scrubby azalea bushes and brick sidewalk. I undid the latch, pushed up the window, leaned out, and howled, Help! Help me! No one below, the street deserted.
Behind me the sound of wood splintering.
One leg over the sill, then the other, trying to lower myself, but I had no upper-body strength. I’d never done a pull-up in my life. My nightgown snagged. I ripped it free and crashed to the ground. Sting of cold on my skin, scrape of knees against brick, pain beyond words in my neck. I scrambled upright. Swayed. Stumbled. My right arm—the bad one—instinctively mashing down my breasts, stopping them from swinging unsupported under my gown.
Running. Really running, lungs burning, legs churning. Too frightened to stop and look back.
It turned out I have been running my whole life. I just never knew it.
Twenty-nine
* * *
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 24, 2013
They fingerprinted the entire house before they let me back inside. A frizzy-haired, wide-assed woman around my age arrived with a forensics kit and set to work on the front door. I watched her from the backseat of a squad car, a bulky Georgetown University Police Department jacket draped around my shoulders, another one covering my legs. Blue lights mounted on the car roof flashed on-off in jerky rhythm.
I had run straight for the front gates of the university. At the corner of Thirty-Seventh and O Streets, there’s always a police car parked, standing by for emergencies and also as a visible reminder of the security presence on campus. I caught the startled look of the officer in the driver’s seat as I hurtled in his direction. University cops must see some weird stuff, but hysterical women in UGG boots and torn nightgowns, blood streaming from both knees, probably didn’t come along every night. I flew into his arms while he was still disentangling himself from the car, one boot planted on the asphalt, the other midair. Both a gun and a truncheon dangled from his belt. I’d never been so happy to see weapons.
The cop half-walked, half-dragged me into the guard station attached to the gates, a stone hut I’d marched past a thousand times and never given a second glance. He sat me down. Offered a tissue and -motioned for me to wipe the snot and tears off my face. It was still dark outside. I had no idea what time it might be.
“You okay, ma’am? You hurt?”
“There was a man,” I gasped.
“Okay. You’re okay now. Deep breaths.”
“In my—in my house.”
“And where’s that?”
“Q Street.”
“Q Street? All right. Take it easy, there you go.” My teeth were chattering so violently it must have been audible. He snatched a navy police jacket off a hook and wrapped it awkwardly around me. “So, this guy. In your house. You know him?”
Did I know him? But it was a logical question. Women who turn up bloody and weeping in the wee hours must often turn out to be domestic-violence victims, their wounds inflicted by their husbands or boyfriends.
“No.” I shook my head for emphasis, and the simple gesture scorched such pain through me that my vision went white. Pinpricks of light danced behind my eyelids. When I forced them open, the cop had folded his arms over his gut and was regarding me with an expression somewhere between pity and wariness. I must have looked frightful. Like a madwoman off her meds. Snarled hair, skinned knees, mangy boots, the hem of my nightgown ripped and dirty. Embarrassment spurred me to pull rank.
“My name is Caroline Cashion. Professor Cashion. I’m faculty.”
“Really.”
“French Department. Faculty of Languages and Linguistics.”
His eyebrows bounced up. Then, recovering, “Professor, okay, I didn’t . . . hang on.” He reached behind him, felt around on the counter for a spiral-bound notebook. “Let me take down your address, call this in.”
“I already called it in,” I snapped. “I called 911 from my house. But the guy, the guy who I don’t know, the burglar, he was inside. He came upstairs. I had to run.”
The cop was nodding, scribbling, a new urgency to his movements, when the hut door slammed open. I jumped, ready to flee. But it was only another uniformed police officer. Flabby, older than the first.
“Evening, Al. Goddamn freezing out—” He spotted me, checked himself. “Evening . . . miss.” He looked me up and down, then turned to my cop. “Whaddawe got here?”
“This is, um, Mrs. . . . Professor . . . Cashion. I was just . . .” The one apparently named Al had slid out a keyboard from an underdesk tray and was pecking at the keys. I knew what he was searching. I doubted that at that moment I remotely resembled the smiling, poised ID photo that he would pull up in the university database. But the age, race, and gender would match. The photo must have passed muster because the two cops exchanged nervous glances and began barking at each other.
“Why haven’t you cleaned her up? Where’s the first-aid kit?” The older one.
Al swatted him away. “I’m calling over to Idaho Avenue, see what they know.” Idaho Avenue is the closest DC metropolitan police station. Second district, the one responsible for Georgetown.
“Here we go. Just a little sting.” The older officer again, leaning over my knees, swiping at them with an antiseptic wipe that stung like hell. He lowered his voice. “Do you need a rape kit?”