Wild Justice (Nadia Stafford 3)

You cannot forget that. You just can't.

But I had, and right now, I couldn't process how or the why. Simple acceptance was difficult enough.

Drew Aldrich had raped me.

He raped me and he hadn't been charged with it, and I hadn't testified to it, which meant . . .

I sucked in breath.

Just days ago, I'd told Jack that I'd almost wished I'd been hurt because then Aldrich would have gone to jail. But I had and he didn't, because I'd told nobody.

Had I really told nobody?

I remembered the "dream"--the torn panties, the blood, the pain. Then running through the forest, never running fast enough because I couldn't run. Because every step felt like knives ramming through me.

That part I hadn't forgotten. I'd twisted it into something els

e in my memories--the pain of running too hard, of being too frightened. But it wasn't. I'd run to town, and I'd hobbled into the station, and--

And I couldn't remember exactly what happened next. I never could. I remembered my father's face, his horror. I remembered yelling about Amy, get Amy, help Amy. The rest was the blur. Wiped from memory.

Given my condition when I ran inside, my father must have known I'd been raped. Maybe they'd all known, every cop who'd been there that day--my uncle, two older cousins, the other officers I'd grown up with. They'd known what had happened to me and they made a decision to bury it. To pretend it never happened.

My uncle, my cousins . . . men I'd loved. Men I'd trusted. And my father. My wonderful, perfect father.

They'd known what had happened and they'd denied it. They'd denied me the chance to deal with it and, most important, they'd denied Amy the chance for justice.

I sat on my bed for at least an hour. Then I had a bath, as hot as I could stand it. I scrubbed and I lathered and I scrubbed some more, until the water was cold and when I tried to add more hot, it blasted my raw skin like molten lava. I got out, pulled on my robe, and went to my window. I stood there, staring into the forest, until I caught a flicker of white. I looked down to see Scout about a hundred feet in. Jack was with her, sitting on a stump, the dog at his feet.

Did I think he'd go amuse himself while I suffered in private? No. Like me, he'd spent most of his life feeling guilty for things he'd done, things he hadn't done, decisions he'd made, decisions he hadn't made. It didn't take much to tap into that well. He'd wrestled with this, and even if I'd forced his hand, he was going to feel guilty. Now he'd sit out there, making sure I didn't slip out my window and hurt myself somehow.

I did sneak out--through the front door, to avoid the guests enjoying dinner.

"Hey," I said as Scout jumped up to greet me. I walked to Jack. "How about we do something? Get me out of my head for a while."

"Talk?"

I shook my head. "Not yet. I want a distraction, and I don't care if that's not the responsible or the mature way to handle this. Is there something you'd like to do?" I waved around me. "We have a world of choices."

He studied my expression, as if trying to figure out if I was serious or playing hostess. After a minute he said, "You've got white-water rafting, right?"

"White-water canoeing actually. But it comes with the risk of hypothermia at this time of year."

"That's a no?"

"It would be a yes, if I thought you meant it. I'm well versed in your opinion of my extreme sports, Jack. Seriously, what do you want to do?"

"What I said. Take me out. Show me how it's done."

It was exactly what I needed right now, as crazy as that sounded. A distraction that would consume all my attention.

"Really?" I said.

He gave me a look. "You want it in writing?"

"I might. Okay, then, let's hit the rapids."

"F-f-fuck!" Jack said as he stumbled from the canoe, soaked and shivering uncontrollably.