Page 120 of Brutal Obsession

“He didn’t.” I don’t know how I know it, but I do. He didn’t rape me. That’s the sort of thing I’d be able to feel, right? I’d be sore. Or there would be evidence. Bruising, tearing. All the sort of vicious stuff we hear about in relation to sexual attacks.

Right?

The more I think about it, though, the more suspicious I become. Why don’t I remember? I push myself back to my feet and go to the trash. There are two beer bottles nestled against the plastic, along with a pizza box. Not stuff we’d usually throw away.

We like to recycle, for one.

I have that same untethered feeling as when I was high on the Molly. Like I’m lost and might just float away. So I pour myself a tall glass of water and force myself to drink most of it, then refill and repeat.

Worry churns my gut. I can’t let it go. Something happened, and it’s eluding me. Just out of my grasp. Every muscle in my body is strung tight.

Willow guides me back to bed, and we both jerk to a stop in my room.

My nightstand is tilted, like something crashed into it. My lamp is askew, leaning haphazardly against the clock. It seems like a miracle it didn’t fall and break. Everything else that used to be on it, nice and neat, is jostled, too. My book is on the floor.

“Something happened,” Willow says in a low voice. “I don’t know what, but… we need to find out.”

“I agree.” I’m afraid, but at the same time, I need to know.

“Do you want to stay in my room instead?”

I shake my head and shuffle over to my bed. I fix the lamp, straighten the rest of it, then sit heavily.

“As soon as this headache goes away, I’ll play detective with you,” I tell her.

She nods and watches me. Concern creases the outer corners of her eyes, and her lips press together, but she doesn’t say anything.

“Go to class,” I sigh into my pillow. I wrap my arms around it and bury my face. “I’ll be okay.”

She hesitates.

“Really, Willow.”

“Okay. Under duress. I’ll see if…” She shifts, drumming her fingers on my dresser. “Maybe someone knows something. One of our neighbors.”

We live across the street from other college students. It’s common in this area, really. But if she thinks one of them saw something, I have a feeling she’s mistaken.

Still, I don’t refute her. I want to know—no, I need to know. The unknown is an itch I can’t scratch. My skin crawls, and I can’t seem to tear my thoughts away from whatmighthave happened to me.

I close my eyes. Willow leaves my door open on her way out, and I don’t fault her for that. She’s worried. I’m worried.

Her shower kicks on, and I fail to fully relax. Every time I do, something has me tensing. Sleep haunts me. It’s right there, then gone. My eyes are sandpaper behind my eyelids. The tears that keep leaking out aren’t helping.

I need to know what happened last night.

Which means confronting Jack.

As soon as the front door closes, I force myself back out of bed. I take a shower and dress warmly. A baby-blue sweatshirt over a long-sleeved white shirt withCrown Point Danceacross the front. I brush out my hair and braid it back, then hunt down a hat. Winter jacket. Jeans. Boots.

Armor.

I swipe on makeup, to disguise how I feel on the inside, and pop a few Advil.

Then I head to campus.

Today, I draw more stares. I’m not really concerned with them—I am on a mission to find Jack. It’s almost dinnertime, so the sensible place to find him is in the student center.

And, sure enough, I find him with his football friends in a gathering outside the dining hall. He turns and scans the room, like he can feel me enter, and quickly averts his eyes.

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