Page 8 of Saving Her Vampire

“I know.”

“Do you need stitches?” he asks, concerned.

“No, it’ll be fine. Did you hit him?”

“Yes, repeatedly,” he says.

“Awesome,” I say.

“I care about you. I have to take better care of my loyal employee.” He grins.

“No shit,” I grin back.

“The wife and sister should be here soon. Do you want to sit this one out?” He gestures to my face.

“No,” I sigh. “I want to be there. This might work to our advantage.”

“How so?” he asks.

“You’ll see. Let me know when they're here.” I shut the door after he leaves and lean back against it, forgetting my back. Fuck, it hurts. I have never been hit before. I guess there’s a first time for everything.

I constantly chattered as a child. I would spit out question after question to my parents and anyone that would listen. I was shushed frequently at home and told I talked too much at school. I learned they didn’t want to hear me, so I worked on containing myself. I slowly eased back, falling into the shadows, and didn’t talk unless spoken to. I don’t blame my parents much. They didn’t know what to do with an energetic girl.

I am an only child of an older couple. I was their surprise baby. They loved me and did the best they could with a girl they didn’t understand. I was smart and very good in school. I developed (the small amount I have) breasts late; I was small and had acne. It was the recipe for classic bullying. I was teased, bullied, pushed around, and sneered at throughout school. But I was never hit directly in the face until just now.

One day, I complained to my parents when I came home crying during freshman year. A popular girl thought it would be funny to pull down my baggy pants in front of all the kids in the hallway. I can still hear the laughter as she told me to buy clothes that actually fit. I was mortified, standing in my white underwear with my pants around my knees. They got so flustered by my story that I felt bad for them and decided to just deal with it. They couldn’t cope with the pitfalls of high school for a nerdy girl. I stayed out of the way as much as I could. I went to the library and got lost in the books, dreaming I was in one. My life was not a fairytale. The cute boys didn’t give me attention, at least any good attention. The girls talked about me and made fun of my clothes.

My parents couldn’t afford the designer labels. We shopped at thrift stores and any cheap store. I was grateful to have clothes. Their words didn’t make me feel like something was wrong with me; they made me realize all the things wrong with them. It was a pain in the ass to deal with. It bugged me more when the boys did it. They would trip me in the hallways or call out nasty names. My mind brings up their faces, what they were wearing, how many were in the hallway, and the words they flung at me. My memory is a curse sometimes. After a while, I decided it was easier to be silent and blend into the background.

I had no experience with men until I moved out of my childhood home. I was twenty before I lost my virginity. My first was a nice boy that did the best he could with an awkward girl that didn’t know what she was doing. I didn’t understand the importance of sex after him. I didn’t like it. Of course, as time went on and I had more partners, I realized how fun it could be. Lately, though, I have had more satisfaction with my toy. It’s so sad.

I jump when Quinn knocks on the door. “They're here,” he barks.

“Be right there,” I say. I look at my cheek, glad to see the bleeding stopped, but it’s red and bruising quickly.

I take a deep breath and go to Quinn’s office. Two women are sitting in front of his desk. The woman that must be the wife is wringing her hands in her lap, glancing around nervously. She is pretty, with blonde hair and a smattering of freckles across her nose. Her sister is sitting straight, shooting the wife nervous looks.

They turn to me and watch as I sit at the end of the desk, facing them. The sister narrows her eyes on my cheek but doesn’t comment—the wife gasps at the bruise.

“What happened?” she says, unable to stop her concern.

“We had a visitor. He didn’t like that I caught him cheating.” I shrug and see the gears turning in her head. “Men like him can turn from cheaters to abusers in a heartbeat.” I want to show her the seriousness of the situation. We’ve seen men that we investigate turn quickly against their wives or girlfriends. They want to control them. Abusive men thrive on control. They show the world one side: the good neighbor, the good friend, the responsible employee, and the loving partner. Behind the scenes, they are a different person.

“See, I told you,” the sister says. “This is what could happen.”

“Joan,” the wife pleads. “He wouldn’t do that.”

“Right. Elaine, I bet that’s what that man's wife said, too,” Joan insists.

“She’s right,” I interject. “I’m not saying all cheaters will, but you should be aware of the possibility.”

“What proof do you have?” Elaine demands. Quinn picks up the file from his desk.

“I have to warn you. The pictures are graphic.” I nod to Quinn, and he hands it to her. “I followed your husband for the last two weeks. He met her online. They went out to eat numerous times. Last night, they went to a hotel. I took pictures of their time there.” I keep the details simple. Once she looks at the file, I will answer any questions.

The room is silent as they flip through the pictures. Elaine’s face turns white and then red. Her sister grits her teeth but keeps silent.

“Why? Why would he do this?” Elaine sobs. “We have a good marriage. We have sex regularly. Maybe not as much since our second child. I’ve been tired, and it’s difficult to add a second baby to my schedule. He’s such a good dad. He works so hard to take care of us.” She looks at me with tears in her eyes. “I know my body isn’t what it used to be. I’ve been trying not to eat so much and take care of myself better.”

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