Page 8 of Keeping Her Under
No one likes being raped. Fantasy or not, real life is different. I know that.
So what is it about being stalked and raped that she likes so much to have spent what little money she has on it? To let it sit on her shelf in a special spot rather than hidden in an ebook file on her phone?
At the thought of her phone, I frown.
There wasn’t one in her bag, and I didn’t see one at her house. I assume she must have lost it in the car crash, so I pull out my phone to get Asher to check if it was recovered.
I start to text him, then think better of it. If the police somehow catch on to me and subpoena my phone, I don’t want them to see any messages. Slipping my mobile back into my pocket, I wait for the elevator to reach the third floor. The doors ping open a few seconds later, and I step out into a busy hall. Ignoring the usual hubbub of the hospital, I make a beeline for the nearest private bathroom.
Once inside, I lock the door behind me and pull out my phone to call my cousin. He picks up quickly, which tells me he’s most likely sitting on the side of the road at his favorite spot, waiting for the right sort of car to drive by – a piece of junk held together by force of will alone. Or he’ll get a cash cow, someone with a warrant out for their arrest. He never lets the pedophiles or child abusers off, but he will still give them the choice to do all sorts of nasty things in an attempt to sway him. Male or female, it doesn’t matter. Asher simply likes the control, likes being in the position where his approval matters the most.
“I haven’t found anything on Ryan yet,” he says as soon as he picks up, having assumed that’s what I’m calling for. “His name’s come back clean. Not so much as an outstanding parking ticket. There’s a rapist in the area though, and he kind of fits the suspect’s description. If you find out what he was doing last night around six, I can bring him in as a suspect and hold him for a bit.”
“I’ll see if he has an alibi,” I say. I doubt he’s the actual rapist; I haven’t seen him pay any woman any attention in the six years he’s worked here. No guys either. But if it’s the only way I have to blackmail him –telling him I’ll lie to the police if he doesn’t let me have some time with her– then I’ll do it.
A thought tickles the back of my mind about him, but I push it aside for now. My first surgery is in less than an hour, and before then, I need to prep my station in the operating room and wheel in the patient, assuming they pass my assessment.
“But that’s not why I’m calling,” I say as I stand in the middle of the room. “Did the police find Summer’s phone?”
“Summer?”
“The woman who crashed into a tree yesterday, on the turn to Derek’s farm.”
“Haven’t heard about it. Why?”
“I want it.”
There’s a moment’s pause. “You know her?”
“No.”
Another pause, this one thicker. Then, “If her phone was in the car, it would’ve been sent to the hospital with her along with any other personal belongings, but I’ll check to see if it got left with her car or secured here. Is she why you want dirt on Ryan?”
“Yes.”
I can hear him thinking it through – why Summer isn’t asking about her phone herself, why I need her nurse in a controllable position, why I want such a personal belonging.
Eventually, he asks point blank, “Are you going to rape her?”
“No,” I say. “She’s in a coma.”
I hang up and step out of the bathroom.
Rape is traumatic. Rape creates victims. What I’m going to do to her isn’t going to be remembered by her or felt by her at all. No pain, no trauma.
No rape.
“That’s fucking bullshit!” a man yells from down the hall, his voice twisted in rage. “We’re here to visit her mother! Allison isn’t even sick or hurt. Alli! Alli, baby, where are you?” A dark-haired, middle-aged man barrels past a female doctor, his head swinging around wildly. The other people standing in the waiting room move out of his way, looking sick as they hear his news and fear for their own. The doctor turns to follow him as two security guards hustle down the hall.
“Mr. Carlton,” she says, “I’m sorry for your loss, but you need to calm down before security gets here.”
“You told me my daughter is dead!” he roars as he spins back to face her. His hands are clenched hard at his sides, but he doesn’t raise them. “But she was right here a few minutes ago! She just went to stretch her legs because we’ve been here all night, waiting for her mother to get out of surgery!”
“I’m sorry –”
“No! She was right here! She was talking to me! How can she be dead? Yesterday, she was running around, playing soccer!”
I recognize the woman as Dr. Katherine Chaney. She’s been here for over ten years, and she’s damn good at her job. If the kid died in her care, there was nothing that could be done.
