Page 31 of When the Smoke Clears

He doesn’t look convinced. Several silent seconds pass. “I think you should have a lawyer with you.”

“If they were going to arrest me, I assume they’d have done it by now.” I’m aware of my right to protect myself on Nana’s property. I’m also aware the police department is taking the investigation seriously.

Sutton scrubs a hand over his face and lets out a long, heavy sigh. “I do not like this. You have no legal protection on your own.”

I press up on my toes. “I’ll be fine.” I brush my lips over his.

Something breaks in him, a wall he’s kept up for the last few days. He grabs my head with both hands and kisses me powerfully, possessing my mouth and infusing so many emotions in every press of his lips and swipe of his tongue. Wetness gathers between my legs, and I ignore my side yelling in protest as I reach up to wrap my arms around his neck.

As if he knows, he releases me gently and I stand firmly back on my feet. He gives me one last tender kiss. “I’m sorry.”

I fist his shirt in my hands. “Why are you sorry?”

“I know you’re sore.”

“You kissing me the way you’re supposed to isn’t doing anything bad to my body.”

He smirks. “The way I’m supposed to, huh?”

“Yes,” I breathe.

His eyes bounce between mine for a moment, and he leans in once more to kiss me softly. “Just be careful.”

Eventually, Andi disappears into her bedroom. I seat myself at the dining room table and pull up my email on my laptop. My thoughts are distracted, and instead of sending many responses, I start researching laws around self-defense, which leads me down a rabbit hole of survivors and their experiences.

Many of them talk about the legal ramifications, and what they went through to be considered “not guilty” of murder, even discussing the financial impact. Few of them share what the emotional experience was like.

Removing my hands from the keyboard, I lean back in the chair and stare out the back window of the dining room. Owning my own business means I can’t afford health insurance. I don’t have the funds for therapy or anything like it. I hardly know how I’m going to handle all of the hospital bills from this when they start to come in.

At the same time, I suspect I’m going to need some outside help. Help that doesn’t come from my friends and family, and certainly not my new boyfriend, who has already taken on so much.

My fingers drum idly on the keys. There are enough online forums about the legal aspect of these situations; there has to be something for the emotional side. After a few more searches, I manage to find a few articles on post-traumatic stress disorder.

Do I really have a disorder? It feels damning. Unfortunately, the symptoms fit.

One person shares their experience with exposure therapy, and how it helped them to cope. I read through more articles on the technique, which involves confronting the memories and triggers of the emotional responses in a gradual manner to lessen the anxiety and other symptoms. It’s meant to be done with a therapist, but as that’s financially not an option, I decide to try it out myself.

I can face these things slowly and incrementally. I can do this.

I’m pretty sure I’ve used up all my energy reserves. I manage to climb into the Jeep on my own, then sit idling while I compose myself from exertion before leaving.

This is fine. Everything’s fine.

It feels surreal to be driving to the police department. People in town are going on their merry way, and I’m about to walk into a building I may not walk out of.

I might have convinced Sutton to calm down, but it doesn’t lessen the severity of what I know is about to happen.

After a final cleansing breath, I grab my purse and head inside. A man in uniform sits at the front desk. He doesn’t speak, just looks at me with a bored expression.

“I’m here to see Detective Porter.” The confidence I’m going for is lacking.

“Name?” There’s no change to his stiff face. His voice is just as blank.

“Maci McCullough.”

If he’s aware of who I am, there’s no outward indication. “Have a seat.”

I don’t bother to respond, making my way to the row of hard-backed chairs. The first one I come to has something sticky on it, so I skip a few before sitting down.

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