Page 46 of Riot

“Hi, babies, did you have a good time with Daddy?” she whispers, crouching and looking into their eyes.

“Mom, you’re crying. Are you sad?” the girl asks.

“No, baby, I’m okay. I’m just happy to see some old friends.” She stands, looking at me.

“Your mom is an amazing woman. Take care of her for me,” I tell them as I nod at Kage, and we head toward the door.

“Fallon?” I turn back to see her arms wrapped around her children as she watches us. “Make them pay.”

Sarah reminded me that I’m not just doing this for me, but for every woman they hurt back then. I wasn’t the only one, after all, and where there is one, there will be many. Men like this have a pattern of abuse, and it didn’t stop with me.

The name she gave me isn’t one I’m familiar with, but when we pull up at the cemetery, I’m shocked. We head inside, and after searching, we stop at a grave that matches the name on the paper.

LENNIE MILLER.

BELOVED DAUGHTER AND SISTER

1990-2005

She died the year before my father died.

“Excuse me, who are you?” I turn to see an older, frail-looking woman. Her hair is gray, and her skin is slightly tan. She’s short and round, but as she watches us with friendly brown eyes, I see a quiet strength in her. “Did you know my daughter?”

“Your daughter?” I turn back to the grave and then look at the woman. “You are Ms. Miller?”

The woman nods, clutching flowers, and I step back as she struggles to her knees. Kage helps her place the flowers and clean the grave, and then he assists her to her feet. “Thank you, my knees aren’t what they used to be,” she says, and then she glances between us again. “Did you say you knew my Lennie?”

“I don’t think so.”

She frowns at me in confusion, and I sigh.

“I’m Fallon?—”

“Fallon? Agille’s daughter?”

I swallow as I nod, and she looks me over.

“Come with me.”

We end up at a cute little two-story house after following her urgings. It’s just a short walk from the cemetery, and it’s immaculate. Ms. Miller hustles around the cute kitchen, where we sit at a round table. She quickly sets out tea and cookies before sitting and looking at me again. “You don’t look like him, but you have his?—”

“Eyes,” I finish. “You knew my father?”

“No, not really.” She reaches over and pours me a drink, her hand shaking on the porcelain, and I cover it as she meets my gaze. “I only know him because of my daughter. I have been trying for years to expose the truth about what happened to her.”

“Her death?” I ask.

“That and before.” She nods, sitting back. She wraps her hands around the teacup and stares into it. “It doesn’t matter how many times I tell it, it never gets easier. Most dismiss me as a grief-stricken old lady. They don’t care about the truth.”

“I do,” I assure her. “I was given your daughter’s name for a reason. Can you tell me what happened?”

She takes a deep breath, and I swear she ages before our eyes as she starts to speak. “My daughter was a model. She was a teenager, but they scouted her when she was young, and she was so determined because it was what she wanted.” She smiles sadly. “She was so headstrong that we could only agree. We traipsed around the world with her, but it happened right in our backyard. Her manager took her to an awards party. He didn’t mention an after-party, and we must have fallen asleep waiting for her to come home. She was gang raped.” She meets my gaze. “At one of your father’s parties. Her manager dropped her off at a hospital. She had her stomach pumped, and they patched her up before she had to find her own way home. We woke up to her crying. She was never the same after that night, and she never got any more jobs. Her manager quickly dropped her. She was forgotten, and no one cared about her or what we had to say. We went to the police, but no one cared.” Tears fill her eyes as she pauses. “She eventually killed herself, unable to handle it.”

She delivers that news with stoic coldness, but I can see the agony and grief in her eyes, and I know this woman has never and will never get over what happened to her daughter.

We watch her, silent and horrified, and she takes a sip of her tea. Shame fills me. It was my father’s sin, but I blame myself.

“My husband blamed himself—we both did. We should have gone with her, should have protected her.” She laughs bitterly. “We were fools, and he couldn’t handle it. He killed himself just six months later, leaving me alone. I wanted to follow them, to be with them and hopefully find peace, but I couldn’t. If I did, then there would be no one to fight for justice. I have been doing it every day since, not that anybody cares. Nobody listens. I’m forgotten just like her. I lost my daughter, my husband, and my life.”

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