Page 34 of Don't Look Away

I frown. “So, what, you’re saying I should have just let him get away with what he did?”

He shakes his head again. “I’m saying jail isn’t the answer.”

I pause, swallowing. “Okay, but if he’snotin jail, he’ll come after me again. I know it.”

It’s my worst possible fear, actually, and it took several months of therapy for the nightmares of my attacker to fade. My subconscious used to dream up all kinds of crazy scenarios, but they all had one thing in common; in the end, he would always catch me, and I would wake upjustas his knife swept across my throat. I get chills, even now, just remembering it.

“There are other options,” Roman says. “In-patient treatment. Programs that can help treat this kind of thing.”

Maybe he’s right, I don’t know. What if my attacker spends five years in jail, then just comes out worse, and full of anger—atme? There isn’t a restraining order in the world that can keep a furious psycho at bay. Maybe intense therapywouldbe better. Not freedom. But a facility that treats his particular brand of crazy.

I push out a breath. “My attacker has a preliminary hearing next week. Maybe I should talk to my lawyer about other possible options. I’m not even sure how much my opinion matters, in the end, though.”

Roman flashes a smile then leans forward and places a gentle kiss on my lips. “I wish my brother had someone willing to do the same thing for him. This whole fucking thing sucks.”

Roman pulls me into his strong arms and envelopes me in his warmth. We lay like that for a while, in silence, until eventually, he drifts off to sleep. I can tell by the tempo of his breathing, which is slow and steady.

But I can’t sleep. My mind is whirling, consumed by second thoughts. When my attacker was arrested and thrown into jail, I was relieved. But I hadn’t thought of anything beyond that. I gave my statement to the police, and from there, the justice system was in the driver’s seat. But I wonder now if that was wise. The courts don’t care aboutme. Not really. Their job is to punish my attacker and then move on to the next defendant on their list.

But I have to live with this shadow of fear for the rest of my life, and Roman has a point. If mental health services aren’t a thing in prison, then where does that leave someone who’sclearlyunhinged, like my attacker?

Fuck, I have no idea what to do…

CHAPTERTHIRTEEN

Lux

The next day,I’m between classes when I get a call from an unknown number, but the area code is Malibu, so I decide to answer.

“My name is Dave Harrison, and I’m with Harrison and Grubbs Investigation. Is this Ms. Anderson?”

I perk up. “Oh, yes! Thank you for calling.”

For the next forty-five minutes, I lay everything out, from what happened to me last year, to Bree and me arriving on campus, to Bree being killed. And as we’re talking, I find a bench and pull out my laptop, emailing him copies of all the evidence I have. Thankfully, I’d taken photos and notes of everything before handing it all over to the police.

We agree on a price that seems reasonable, and he emails me his retainer agreement. I e-sign the document without even perusing the lengthy legal language and immediately email it back to him. But right before we hang up, I add one last thing, “Hey, um, can you also look into the Rush family for me?”

Silence falls over the phone, until finally, he says, “The Rush family is pretty influential around here. You sure you want to do that?”

The question should probably give me pause, but I’m in too deep at this point. “Yeah, I’m sure. Just anything you can find about the eldest son. He’s in jail, but I’m not sure where, or why, really.”

“You got it,” he says with a gravelly voice. “Expect to hear from me within the next couple of weeks.”

When we hang up, I push out a breath. I’m relieved, honestly. I finally have help. It may drain my entire bank account, but if Dave can get me closer to finding Bree’s killer, then it’ll be well worth it.

A couple of hours later, I book it back to Rush House, because a hired car is arriving any minute to take me to the doctor’s office. I get there just as the car is pulling up to the curb, the driver getting out to open my door for me.

The doctor’s office isn’t too far away, thankfully, and when I arrive, I’m immediately whisked into an exam room. I get the feeling Roman and his family receive VIP treatment everywhere, which must include the doctor’s office. Usually, I’m in the waiting room forat leastthirty minutes before being taken back to an exam room.

A nurse gets my weight and blood pressure, runs down the usual list of questions, and then ushers me into an exam room, instructing me to undress.

“There’s a gown on the exam table,” she says with a smile. “The doctor will be in shortly.”

I strip down quickly and immediately slip into the pink cotton gown. I’m never quite sure how these things are supposed to be tied. For some reason, there are always way too many ties, so I just find two and knot them together loosely. Just as I’m tucking my panties under my folded jeans, I hear my file being removed from the pocket on the door, and there’s a knock.

“Come in,” I say, shivering. Why is it so cold in here?

The door opens, and a middle-aged woman in a lab coat walks through the door. She has a clipboard in her hand. “Ms…” She glances down at my very thin file. “...Anderson.” She glances up with a smile and holds her hand out. “I’m Dr. Kimball. Nice to meet you.”

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