Her face contorted. “Because we broke up a couple of weeks ago. And being that close to him again ... it hurt.” Daniel's head snapped up. “Broke up?”
Trixie turned at the same time the detective stopped the tape.
“Mr. Stone,” Bartholemew said, “I'm going to have to ask you to remain silent.” He nodded at Trixie to continue. She let her gaze slide beneath the table. “We . .. we wound up kissing. I fell asleep for a little while, I guess, because when I woke up, we weren't near the bathroom anymore ... we were on the carpet in the living room. I don't remember how we got there. That was when he ... when he raped me.”
The last drink that Daniel had had was in 1991, the day before he convinced Laura that he was worth marrying. But before that, he'd had plenty of firsthand knowledge about the faulty reasoning and slurred decisions that swam at the bottom of a bottle. He'd had his
share of mornings where he woke up in a house he could not recall arriving at. Trixie might not remember how she got into the living room, but Daniel could tell her exactly how it had happened.
Detective Bartholemew looked squarely at Trixie. “I know this is going to be difficult,” he said, “but I need you to tell me exactly what happened between you two. Like whether either of you removed any clothing. Or what parts of your body he touched. What you said to him and what he said to you. Things like that.” Trixie fiddled with the zipper of Daniel's battered leather jacket. 'He tried to take off my shirt, but I didn't want him to. I told him that it was Zephyrs house and that I didn't feel right fooling around there. He said I was breaking his heart. I felt bad after that, so I let him unhook my bra and touch me, you know. . . my breasts. He was
kissing me the whole time, and that was the good part, the part I wanted, but then he put his hand down my pants. I tried to pull his hand away, but he was too strong.“ Trixie swallowed. ”He said,
'Don't tell me you don't want this.' '
Daniel gripped the edge of the table so hard that he thought he would crack the plastic. He took a deep breath in through his mouth and held it. He thought of all the ways it would be possible to kill Jason Underhill.
“I tried to get away, but he's bigger than I am, and he pushed me down again. It was like a game to him. He held my hands up over my head and he pulled down my pants. I said I wanted him to stop and he didn't. And then,” Trixie said, stumbling over the words.
“And then he pushed me down hard and he raped me.” There was a bullet, Daniel thought, but that would be too easy.
“Had you ever had sex before?”
Trixie glanced at Daniel. “No,” she answered. “I started screaming, because it hurt so much. I tried to kick him. But when I did, it hurt more, so I just stayed still and waited for it to be over.”
Drowning, Daniel thought. Slowly. In a sewer.
“Did your friend hear you screaming?” Detective Bartholemew asked.
“I guess not,” Trixie said. “There was music on, pretty loud.” No . . . a rusty knife. A sharp cut to the gut. Daniel had read about men who'd had to live for days, watching their insides being eaten out by infection.
“Did he use a condom?”
Trixie shook her head. “He pulled out before he finished. There was blood on the carpet, and on me, too. He was worried about that. He said he didn't mean to hurt me.”
Maybe, Daniel mused, he would do all of these things to Jason Underhill. Twice.
'He got up and found a roll of paper towels so I could clean myself up. Then he took some rug cleaner from under the kitchen sink,
and he scrubbed the spot on the carpet. He said we were lucky it wasn't ruined.'
And what about Trixie? What magical solution would take away the stain he'd left on her forever? “Mr. Stone?” Daniel blinked, and he realized that he had become someone else for a moment - someone he hadn't been for years - and that the detective had been speaking to him. “Sorry.”
“Could I see you outside?”
He followed Bartholemew into the hallway of the police station.
“Look,” the detective said, “I see this kind of thing a lot.” This was news to Daniel. The last rape he could remember in their small town happened over a decade ago and was perpetrated by a hitch-hiker.
“A lot of girls think they're ready to have sex . .. but then change their mind, after the fact.”
It took Daniel a minute to find his voice. “Are you saying ... that my daughter's lying?”
“No. But I want you to understand that even if Trixie is willing to testify, you might not get the outcome you're hoping for.” “She's fourteen, for God's sake,” Daniel said. “Kids younger than that are having sex. And according to the medical report, there wasn't significant internal trauma.” “She wasn't hurt enough?”
“I'm just saying that given the details - the alcohol, the strip poker, the former relationship with Jason - rape could be a hard sell to a jury. The boy's going to say it was consensual.” Daniel clenched his jaw. “If a murder suspect told you he was innocent, would you just let him walk away?”
“It's not quite the same”
'No, it's not. Because the murder victim's dead and can't give you any information about what really happened. As opposed to my daughter, the one who's inside there telling you exactly how she was
raped, while you aren't fucking listening to her.' He opened the door to the conference room to see Trixie with her arms folded on the
table, her head resting on her hands.
“Can we go home?” she asked, groggy.
“Yes,” Daniel said. “The detective can call us if he needs anything else.” He anchored his arm around Trixie.
