His phone started to ring. His mother again. She was clearly on one of her benders. He couldn’t blame her. He was a shitty son. Hell, he had been a shitty chief, a shitty mentor, a shitty husband.
Jeffrey let himself stew on his missteps until he passed the sign welcoming him to the Avondale City Limits, population 4,308. Jeffrey referenced the address Chuck had given him. He should’ve run the information through his own system to make sure that the Humphries still lived at the same location, but he needn’t have bothered. Jeffrey could tell from the car parked in front of the house that the girl was still there.
Sara’s silver Z4 was in front of the mailbox. The convertible top was down to take advantage of the good weather.
“For fucksakes.” Jeffrey parked behind the $80,000 sportscar. He took a few seconds to swallow down his irritation. If Sara wanted to ride around with the top down, Dolly Parton blaring from the speakers like some sad version of a tricked-out hillbilly nerd, then godspeed.
He opened his notebook. He jotted down the list of action items from the ride over. He wasn’t as careful a note taker as he should’ve been. He was always riding Lena and Brad about making sure their asses were covered. Jeffrey hated to be thinking about it this way, but if Gerald Caterino really was going to sue the force, he needed to make sure his ass was covered, too.
He closed his notebook and pocketed his pen. He got out of the car. He looked up at the house. Avondale had at one time been filled with blue-collar workers from the railroad maintenance hub. The job had put them solidly in the middle class, and the architecture of the homes reflected that. Brick on all four sides. Aluminum-framed windows. Concrete driveways. All the modern conveniences of 1975.
The Humphreys hadn’t made any changes to the outside of the house. The white paint had yellowed, but it wasn’t peeling. The car in the driveway was an older model minivan. The front door was a high-gloss black.
Jeffrey knocked once, but the door was already opening.
The woman who answered looked drawn. She was only slightly older than Jeffrey, but her hair had gone completely gray. The curls were clipped tight to her head. Dark circles rimmed her eyes. She was wearing a house dress that zipped in the front. The way she looked at Jeffrey made him feel guilty for being here. He assumed Sara would make him feel worse.
“Mrs. Humphrey?”
She looked into the driveway, then the street. “Did you see a blue Ford truck?”
“No, ma’am.”
“If my husband comes, you’ll have to leave. He doesn’t want Tommi bothered with this. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She opened the door wide enough for him to pass. “They’re in the back yard. Please, be quick.”
Jeffrey walked into what he was expecting, a rectangle chopped up into small rooms with a bowling alley hallway down the middle. He glanced at the photographs hanging on the walls. He assumed that Tommi Humphrey was an only child. The pictures showed a happy young woman, usually surrounded by a group of friends. She had played flute in the marching band. She had competed in several science fairs. She had a series of dogs, then a cat, then a boyfriend who had taken her to the prom. The last photo was of Tommi holding a moving box outside what was obviously one of the dorm rooms at Grant Tech.
There were no more pictures after that.
Jeffrey pushed open a sliding glass door. He could see Sara sitting at a picnic table with a painfully thin young woman. Bright white skin. Her hair was short and black now. Tommi Humphrey must’ve been in her early twenties, but she looked somehow older and younger at the same time. She was smoking a cigarette. Even from several yards, he could see the tremble in her hand.
Sara did not look surprised to see him. She told the girl, “This is Jeffrey.”
Tommi turned slightly, but did not look at him.
Jeffrey took his cue from Sara. She indicated the other side of the table.
He sat back on the bench. He kept his hands in his lap. He had interviewed many rape victims in his law enforcement career. The first thing he’d learned was that they never acted a particular way. Some were angry. Some entered into a fugue state. Some wanted revenge. Most desperately wanted to leave. A few had even laughed when they told their stories. He had noted the same unpredictable affects among veterans returning from war. Trauma was trauma. Every person reacted differently.
Sara spoke to Jeffrey, but she looked at Tommi. “Sweetheart, what you just told me is so important. Can you tell Jeffrey?”
Jeffrey gripped his hands under the table. His only option was to sit still and be quiet.
Sara said, “If it’s easier, I can tell him. You’ve already given me permission. We want to do whatever is easiest for you.”
Tommi tapped her cigarette on the side of an overflowing ashtray. Her breath had the audible rasp of a chain smoker. Jeffrey thought about all of the photographs lining the hallway. Sara was right to compare what had happened to an atomic blast. Before the assault, Tommi had been ebullient, popular, happy. Now, she was a dark shadow of her former self.
Sara said, “We could leave right now, if that’s what you want. But it would be helpful if Jeffrey could hear it in your own words. I promise you on my life that nothing will happen. This isn’t official. You’re not making a statement. No one will even know about this conversation. Right?”
She had asked Jeffrey this question. He
