Page 82 of Meet Me at the Metro

“Tonight, I saw him cornering her against the wall. He had his hands on her and, from what I could see, was being very rough.”

“And your name is?”

“Connor. Connor Davidson.”

“And your relationship with Miss Mattice?”

“Friends,” he says. “We’re good friends. We’re in the same study program atGildenhill.”

“Is that where the incidenttonight took place?”

“Yes,” I answer, finally gathering enough courage to speak for myself again. “I was walking to my evening class.”

“And what about the other encounter? Did it take place at the University, too?”

“No, sir. It was at the train station.”

“Any witnesses to that one?”

“No,” I half lie. Theowasthere by the end of it, but he didn’t see much of anything before John rushed away. At least not enough to come forward with an account of what happened. Besides, Connor is already being dragged into this mess with me. I don’t want to pull Theo into it, too. “Not for that one.”

The officer takes several moments to type up everything that’s been exchanged before he asks his next question. “And I apologize, Miss Mattice, but I have to ask… during either one of these instances, did he becomesexuallyaggressive with you?”

“N-not exactly.”

“Not exactly?”

“I mean, I don’t know if you’d consider it aggressive, but he,umm—started to put his hand between my legs.”

“I see,” he nods. “Did hetouchyou there?”

I shake my head, feeling too ashamed to even look over and see Connor’s reaction, though I can feel my friend’s concerned eyes. “Connor got there before it could get to that point.”

Having to say all of this out loud feels humiliating—feels dirty. Maybe it’s because I’ve heard the accusations people have made behind other women’s backs who have gone through similar experiences, or maybe it’s because I felt like I should have done more to prevent all this.

Should I have known better with John or somehow been more aware of the potential that all of this was coming?

It doesn’t seem fair to even have to contemplate these questions.

“And just to verify because the protocol requires me to—no sexual assault has occurred?”

“No, sir.”

Connor takes a deep breath beside me during the dreadful silence that follows my answer.

The man works on his computer for several minutes, his eyes flitting across whatever’s displayed on its screen and his fingers clicking the mouse beneath his hand. Finally, he asks, “What is your ex-boyfriend’s full name? And if you know his date of birth and age?”

“Johnathan Warner.” A wicked chill licks up my spine. “Birthday is July 9th, 2002. He’s 22 years old.”

“I’m going to get him down in the system,” the police officer nods. “Is there any other pertinent information you’d like us to know?”

“No, sir.”

At that, he stands from his desk chair. “We appreciate you for coming in and making a report for all of this. Is there anything else we can do for you?”

Connor stiffens beside me. “That’s it?”

“Unfortunately. Due to the lack of evidence of the encounters, we don’t have many options for her besides getting her statement on record.”

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