Page 22 of Frankie and the Fed
“Are you intimate?” she continues to ask.
I nod, humiliated. I am an adulterous woman. How does it sound to outsiders?
“Please go on,” she gestures with her hand and continues to write my words.
“Michael called me and said that if I didn’t come back voluntarily, he would kill Ethan.”
“So he threatened to kill Mr. Wolf, and you felt that was a serious threat?” she asks.
“Yes. He sent me pictures.”
The detective nods. “We got the pictures from Mr. Wolf.”
“He sent you the pictures?”
“Yes, the investigator sent to interview him, similar to what we are doing now, received the photos from him with the threat to his life. But we couldn’t confirm that the photos came from Mr. Summers. Are you saying he sent them?”
My heart flutters and almost jumps out of my chest. “Wait, you’re saying Ethan sent the picturesafterwhat happened in the cabin? Is he alive?” I shout.
She stops writing and lifts her head. “Yes. I’m sorry, I assumed you knew.”
He’s alive.
Ethan is alive.
My head is empty of thoughts. Ethan is alive.
Is he here at the same hospital? Maybe even in the room next to me? And I didn’t know. I didn’t go to see him. Why didn’t they tell me? Can he speak? Why didn’t he call me? “Where is he? What happened to him?” I grab her arm.
She stares at my hand clasped around her wrist but doesn’t remove it. She just looks at me with pity. “From what I know, the family asked to fly him to New York for treatment. I haven’t been updated on his condition. The statement he gave is all I have. I’m sorry.”
He made a statement. That means he’s awake. He’s talking. Relief washes over me, and I’m filled with renewed strength. I have to talk to him. I have to know he’s okay.
I shake off my thoughts when the detective asks for my attention again.
“Can you please tell us what happened after you returned here with Michael?”
“Yes.” I remember the horrible days I went through. I hope this will be the last time I have to remember them. I tell her about the time I spent tied to the bed.
The detective listens in silence.
“He had a knife. He threatened me. He enjoyed every minute.” I shudder. “I kept thinking that I wouldn’t survive this time, that he’d kill me.” Tears flow down my cheeks, but I don’t bother to wipe them.
I tell her about the rapes, the beatings. I stop as my body shakes violently. “I don’t think I can go on.”
“Take a deep breath. Just a little longer, Miss Beckett,” she says. “Please.”
I swallow, and she hands me a handkerchief. I tap my face gently. Every touch hurts.
“Can you give me a mirror?” I ask, realizing that I haven’t seen myself since it happened.
“A mirror?”
“Yes. Can you bring me a mirror, please? I want to see what he did to me.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea.” She tries to make me give up the thought.
“A mirror,” I insist.
