Jace (Kings of Country 1)

“Can you forgive me?” Hank said. “I know I can’t.”

Jace followed Emmy and Travis, closing the office door behind them.

The three of them looked at each other, wearing a range of expressions. None good. The only thing Jace could do now was be there for Krystal. So he would. No matter what. Even if she’d made it clear that that wasn’t what she wanted.

“We all agree this is fu—” Travis stopped. “Messed up? And Momma’s not even here yet.”

Emmy sighed. “No, this time your words are right. This is all totally fucked up.”

It didn’t matter how bad Jace’s head was hurting, they were all three laughing then.

Chapter 17

The interview wouldn’t end. Krystal did her best to stay calm without being distant, something Misumi said she had problems with. This was all about connecting with the audience and appealing to their emotions. Empathy. Sympathy. All that crap that made her want to run and hide.

What good was being emotional? It made it easier to attack, to tear people down, when they showed their weakness.

Krystal wasn’t prepared for Molly Harper to cry. On camera. Not a single dramatic tear, either. It was more a “someone get her a box of tissues” sort of thing. Why that made Krystal cry was an even greater mystery. Maybe having her daddy sobbing in her arms had flipped some sort of crying switch, and now it was stuck in the on position? And Misumi’s whole “be human and emote” thing wasn’t helping. Whatever, it sucked—all of it. Big-time.

“You have your diary with you?” Molly asked.

“After Tig’s statement, I found it. I wrote down everything, processing, trying to make sense of what was happening. I was almost relieved to see what I’d written—because I needed confirmation of what really happened. Even now, he has the ability to make me doubt myself and what I know is true.” She tapped the book. “It was horrible. He is a liar. A liar who is playing on the persona the media has cultivated and enforced about me.”

“Except for our show.”

“You have been nothing but kind to me, Molly.” She nodded. “It means a lot. Especially you coming here this morning.”

“After what you’ve been through, you shouldn’t be traveling.” Her attention wandered to Emmy Lou’s modest cover-up job. “When you say confirmation of what happened.” Molly eyed the diary. “You are referring to encounters with Tig Whitman?”

Krystal nodded. “I got this from my sister on my fifteenth birthday. Our birthday. It was the first time Tig ever touched me in a way that I knew was wrong.”

Molly was dabbing her eyes again. “Why didn’t you tell anyone, Krystal?” She paused. “I think I understand, but for viewers out there who might be in your situation or have a similar past, maybe hearing from you can help them. Or give them comfort?”

Which was a mantle she wasn’t ready to wear. She was broken and messed up—not in a position to help anyone. Still, she tried. “He said I was his special girl. It was natural to show the people you cared about, he said. And since there are different types of love, there are different ways to show it. To prove it.” She shrugged. “I did love him. He was more or less my uncle. There was this disconnect between what he was saying, which made me feel loved, and what he did, which made me ashamed and dirty.” She paused. “If I told, he’d stop—but my family would know and be sad and ashamed, too, maybe even embarrassed. I’d lose and hurt my family and I’d lose the praise and support he gave me—inappropriate behavior aside. Abuse like that isn’t simple. Especially for the victim.”

“What would you like to tell your fans?” Molly paused. “I know this is hard for you.”

Krystal nodded, tears stinging her eyes. “My fans kept me going.” She shook her head. Screw it. The tears weren’t stopping. “Their love made me feel less…broken. And alone. I’ve had some dark days, a lot of them recorded, but it’s hard to live with. This ‘what I did’ thing that has gnawed and gnawed at me until there’s this hole inside.”

“But it’s a ‘what was done to you’ thing, Krystal.” Molly was close to more tears. “Do you think your experience has impacted your ability to foster healthy relationships?”

Krystal stared at her lap. Her hands were shaking. “Definitely. I admit to being guarded. For me, love is another word for making okay things that aren’t right. The great manipulator. Men—people—in my life have used that word right before they did something that had nothing to do with the emotion.” She swallowed. “Or used me in the hopes of advancing their career.”

“Has that been a worry with you and Jace?” Molly asked.

“No.” She shook her head. “He is the real deal.” He was everything.

Molly nodded. “Last question, then. What are you hoping to accomplish with this statement?”

“It’s been ten years. I have reason to believe I wasn’t the only one victimized. My hope is, by sharing what happened, others will find the courage to come forward to stop him. He’s in a place of power, working with other powerful people. It’s likely they know or suspect what he’s done but, like me, they have somehow come to terms with his behavior for whatever reason makes it bearable for them. No one wants to hear about this stuff. No wants to believe someone liked and respected is capable of this. They need to look a certain way, act a certain way—not be the guy you have at family picnics or teaching your kid to drive. Victims know this. That’s where the shame comes in. ‘How could a normal person do something like this? Maybe it’s me? I must have done something to make them act this way.’” She was staring at her hands but forced herself to look at Molly. “But that’s the lie. It’s not you. Me. The victim’s fault. Don’t fall into that trap. Don’t believe. Trust your instincts. Parents, listen to your kids. If they’re telling you something is happening to them, something is. Listen and do something about it.”

“Krystal, I can’t thank you enough for inviting me into your home. I am saddened by what’s happened to you. And, like so many fans, I hope this long and likely complicated journey will lead to the closure and justice you deserve. You have support. We’re with you. And we all wish you a quick recovery.” She smiled. “And cut.”

Krystal and Molly sat, staring at each. The sun was pouring into the music room, casting shadows on all the framed gold and platinum records lining the walls. Molly said it offered the sort of ironic contrast that would add a punch to the setting. Even the most successful can be affected by sexual abuse—anyone could be. “You did really well.”

Krystal stood, still hooked up to her mic. “Thank you, Molly. Really.”

But Molly was hugging her. “My cousin. He was older than me.”