Let Me Know (23 page)

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Amber

I stride to where Jordan is waiting inside, near the main dorm doors. A group of five or six freshman cling to each other by the wall, their faces streaked with tears.

“What’s going on?” I ask Jordan, nodding at the girls.

“One of their friends was raped by a guy she was going out with. She fought back, but he snapped and she’s in the hospital.”

“I-is she going to be okay? Physically, I mean.”

Jordan glances at the girls. “From what I’ve heard, she’s in pretty bad shape.”

The girls hug, seeking each other’s strength. I’m still thinking about that as Jordan and I head for the gym. Emma and my other friends tried to be there for me after what happened with Paul. I turned my back on them because I didn’t know how to cope, and I was punishing myself with the guilt of knowing Michael and Trent’s deaths were my fault. My friends were eventually able to move on, but Emma was left to struggle as she came to terms with her brother’s death and what happened to me and how I had changed.

I keep thinking about this while I run hard on the treadmill. While sitting in class. While eating lunch. And by the time I see the girls again after dinner, on the other side of the cafeteria, my idea has fully taken shape.

I tell Jordan and Emma that I’ll catch up with them, and walk over to the girls’ table. “I’m sorry about your friend.” I sit on an empty seat at the end.

They look at me, a glimpse of recognition on a couple of their faces. They don’t say anything, though. And what is there to say?
Thank you
doesn’t sound right, even if it’s what most people say. Out of politeness.

“I was wondering...” I gulp, trying to loosen the words stuck in my throat. My plan seemed like a great idea while I was thinking about it all day, but now that I have to share it with them, my usual fear of speaking in front of a crowd hits. “I was thinking of organizing a candlelight vigil. For your friend and for other girls on campus who have been sexually assaulted. And for their friends and families.” Once the first words are free, the rest come naturally, like they’ve been waiting patiently this past year for their turn. “It would be a private event. So no media. But you could videotape it if you want to show your friend. Then she’ll know how many people care about her and about others who’ve gone through the same thing.”

The petite girl in the seat next to mine studies me, her head cocked to the side, like she’s attempting to peel off my layers and figure out what’s inside. I try not to squirm in my seat, and she eventually nods to herself. “You really were raped, weren’t you?” Her gaze remains locked on me.

I nod. “You’re right. I was kidnapped and I was raped. Several times.” And unlike when I first told Marcus that sex with Paul had been consensual, that I had agreed to have sex with him so he wouldn’t force himself on me, I now know it’s not true. It’s still rape when you agree to have sex with someone who will otherwise brutalize you. That’s self-preservation. That’s not consensual.

The freshman and her friends exchange glances. “When would it be?” she asks.

“We could do it Sunday night at seven in the baseball diamond on campus.”

The girls nod their agreement and say they’ll spread the word.

“But make it clear we don’t want any publicity about the event. So no posters or anything.” The last thing I want is for this to become about Paul and me and the trial, which is what will happen if the media shows up. “And only tell those people you trust will be supportive or who have been sexually violated. We don’t want this to become a rally screaming for justice against those who’ve hurt us and those we love. It’s about sharing our strength and support.” What I want to avoid is some misguided idiots showing up, claiming that most girls ask to be raped because of what they wear, or some other like-minded belief.

* * *

Two days later, with Marcus by my side, we walk to the baseball diamond. It’s still early. The vigil won’t start for another ten minutes, but I wanted to be here before anyone else.

As we get closer, it’s clear we’re not here soon enough. A small group is already gathering. The field is too thick with snow to do the vigil there, but the path is at least clear.

“Hi,” I say, “are you here for the vigil to support all those impacted by sexual crimes?” A few girls are holding candles, and while I assume there isn’t another vigil planned for the same time and location, I figured I should ask anyway.

“Yes,” a woman in her midthirties says. “I’m Olivia.” She holds out her hand to me. “I was raped while I was a student here.”

I shake her hand. “Hi, I’m Amber. I’m the one who organized this. How did you hear about it?”

Next to her, a girl my age peers curiously at me.

The woman puts her arm around the girl’s shoulders. “My niece told me.”

“And some of my friends told me. They’re gonna be here soon.”

I introduce them to Marcus. The younger girl blushes when he smiles at her, but I can tell they haven’t met before. It’s not the usual reaction he gets from girls he has slept with.

“Are you the girl they keep talking about on the news?” a girl with a striped knitted hat and matching mitts asks.

“Yes, I am.”

A few girls whisper to each other, no doubt like everyone else, discussing whether the rumors are true or not. Their attention then turns to Marcus.

“Did you really star in that porn video?” she asks him.

“I’m the idiot who trusted the wrong girl and she turned my drunken actions against me. But no, I never starred in the video. The credit goes to the guy who pretended to be me for part of it.”

“The woman who posted it will be facing criminal charges,” I add. That was the one thing my mom reassured me about. The police are attempting to locate her. She didn’t post the video under her real name and Marcus can’t remember it.

“Why did she post it?” Olivia asks.

I shrug. “We don’t know. She never approached either of us for money to keep it quiet. And she used a weird login, which means she wasn’t looking for her fifteen minutes of fame.”

“Why didn’t either of you tell the media this?” Striped Hat asks.

“Because I’ve been asked not to say anything. The D.A.’s office is handling it.”

“But you haven’t even defended your own innocence in light of the allegations,” Olivia points out as more people join us.

Marcus places his hand on my lower back and I lean into it.

“I doubt it would make a difference if I tried. People believe what they want to believe, no matter what I tell them. Some are more than willing to turn my brutalization into their own form of entertainment. I’d rather talk about how dangerous stalking is and what I wish I had done to avoid it. But all the reporters want to hear about are the latest sensationalized headlines. They don’t care about me as a person. I’m simply a ratings draw to them.”

There are a few cries of outrage. Emma, Jordan, Brittany, Chase and Liam join the group. They’re silent, but deep down I’m sure they are agreeing with everyone.

“But none of it matters since that’s not why we’re here,” I say as the group continues to grow to more than twenty people. “We’re here to remember those individuals who have been touched in some way by a sex-related crime, whether as a survivor, friend, family member or loved one.”

Marcus hands out candles to those individuals who don’t have one. I light mine and use the flame to light Emma’s. She lights Liam’s, and one by one the candles are lit.

And then we stand here ignoring the cold, honoring a minute of silence before we talk among ourselves and get to know each other’s stories. I’m not sure if this is what one does during a candlelight vigil, but no one seems to care. We’re just happy to share our pain with others and gain each other’s strength.

If the weather were warmer, we would have stayed out longer. But as it is, winter in Chicago isn’t the most outdoor vigil—friendly season. Thirty or so minutes later, the last participant has left, leaving me alone with Marcus and Olivia and her niece. Emma and Liam are off to the side, waiting for us.

I thank Olivia for coming. I’m about to leave when she says, “Amber, do you know who I am?”

I study her for a moment and shake my head. She looks kind of familiar, but it’s hard to tell since she’s bundled up in winter clothing.

“I have a daytime talk show on Channel Four.
The Olivia Wilson Show
.”

My entire body clenches and I throw her niece a hurt look of betrayal. At least that’s the look I’m aiming for. But then I can’t blame her. The “no media” message probably got lost somewhere along the way, though knowing this doesn’t do much to help unclench my muscles.

“What you said earlier makes sense,” Olivia says, “If you’re interested, I would love to have you on the show to talk about stalking.”

I open my mouth to protest, but she cuts me off before I have a chance. “You won’t have to talk about your case or what happened to you specifically. But like you said, there are things you wish you had known back then that might have changed what happened.”

I can’t argue against that, but there is one thing I can do to show her I’m the wrong person for what she has planned. “I’m not good when it comes to public speaking.”

“You looked pretty good to me,” she says, smiling like a proud parent.

“She’s right,” Emma pipes in, moving closer. “You rocked your psych presentation. You can do this.”

Marcus leans in, his breath brushing against my ear. “What you did tonight, Amber, was amazing.” His voice is low. Only I can hear him. “I’m so proud of you and I know you can do this.” He straightens and I immediately miss the closeness.

“All right,” I say, cringing inwardly. Mom told me not to talk to the media. But this is important. It could save lives.

What’s more important than that?

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Amber

Heat claws at the air
,
at my exposed skin
,
and singes the edges of what’s left of my hope.
Smoke reaches into my lungs
,
igniting another round of coughing as I fight for what little oxygen remains in the room
,
my prison.
My eyes burn
,
but the tears in them aren’t enough to extinguish the heat as a plaintive meow rips at my heart.
I
tighten my hold on Smoky
,
my kitten
,
my only source of comfort.

My only friend.

With Smoky sheltered against my chest
,
I
bang my fist on the heavy closed door
,
again and again and again.
“
Please
,
Paul!
” Don’t leave me here to die
.
I’ve lasted this long.
Two weeks
,
five days
,
by my guestimation.

“
I’ll do anything you say.
”
The last part comes out as a spluttered whisper
,
barely noticeable over the crackling flames engulfing the room.
Please don’t let me die.

But something tells me it’s already too late as the words
“
Don’t worry
,
Amber.
You and I were meant to be together.
Forever and ever
”
ring like funeral bells in my brain.
He doesn’t plan for either of us to escape.
He had it planned all along.
My murder.
His suicide.

A
voice yells outside the door
,
but it’s too muffled for me to make out the words.

I
slam my palm against the warm wood.
“
Help me!
”
The words scrape past my raw throat.
Words I’ve been taught are only for the weak.

Shame doesn’t have time to consume me.
A
loud cracking noise followed by a splintering crash and hissing
,
as the ceiling caves in
,
drowns out my screams.

* * *

“Amber.” Someone shakes me. “Amber, you’re having a nightmare. It’s not real.” Brittany’s voice slowly sinks in and I open my eyes. It’s the same dream I’ve been having for the past week. Before that, it was a dream I’d managed to avoid.

I curl myself in a tight ball and whisper, “Sorry.”

She glances at the alarm clock. “I needed to get up anyway and review for my exam.”

That’s a lie. She doesn’t have to review. She knows the info cold.

I push myself up and check the clock. 5:30 a.m. Marcus won’t be at the gym yet; it will be another hour before he shows up. Which means I can push myself super hard and he’ll never know.

And I need to push myself hard.

Today’s the interview. On live TV.

Fifteen minutes later I enter the gym. Not too surprisingly, there are only a handful of people here. I secure a spot on the treadmill and increase the speed from a walk to a jog to a run. Against the soft rock music in the background, my feet pound against the fast-moving belt.
I
can do it.
I
can do it.
I
can do it.

I
can talk in front of a live audience without freaking out.

I repeat the thought to myself a dozen more times, pushing myself harder as I do. My shorts and T-shirt cling to my sweaty body, but I keep going. I have to. It’s the only way I can survive this.

I run until the treadmill console warns me I’ve been on the equipment for the maximum time allowed: thirty minutes. A quick glance around tells me no one will care if I keep going. Eight other treadmills are unoccupied.

I adjust the incline and push myself harder. At five minutes before I’ve officially run an hour, I stumble. I passed runner’s high a while ago, and am sprinting toward crash and burn.

Someone reaches across the console and slows the treadmill. “Didn’t we agree you weren’t going to punish yourself anymore with exercise?” Marcus says, frowning.

He’s right. Guilt and embarrassment stagger through me. “I wasn’t punishing myself.”

“Nice try. But I’m not buying it.”

I glare at him. “I’m sorry—I had a nightmare this morning that left me screaming.”
And apparently bitchy.
“And I’m going on TV in front of a live audience. And the trial begins next week. And I’m sorry if it’s making me a little stressed and I need to burn off some of my nervousness.”

If my edginess surprises him, he doesn’t show it. His frown smooths and he brushes a wayward strand of hair out of my face, tucking it behind my ear. “It’s going to be okay, Amber. I’ll be there for you during the interview and during the trial. I just wish I could be there for you when you have nightmares.”

I know it’s true. It’s killing him that he can’t help me with them. I can see it on his face.

I nod, and after downing water from the water fountain, I join him on the weight floor. My legs have been rubberized and don’t want to cooperate. I do my best, though, to keep Marcus from guessing the truth. He lost it on me before Christmas for pushing myself too hard. I don’t need an encore.

We work out for the next forty minutes, with me taking things easier this time, then get ready to hit the TV station. Marcus drives us, which is just as well. I’m too fidgety. I’d cause an accident for sure if I got behind the wheel and managed to turn the engine on.

“Why aren’t you even nervous?” I ask, taking in his cool exterior. I’m not the only one going on the show. After we told Olivia about the fund-raiser we’re doing, she invited Marcus to join us.

He looks briefly at me. “Would it make you feel better if I told you I’m nervous?”

“Yes.” Who am I kidding? This guy stood up to Carlos, the leader of a gang in Marcus’s old neighborhood. And even when Carlos’s men attacked him, Marcus kept his cool. I guess being reckless also means being fearless.

“Well, I am.”

I’m positive my eyes are as round as the steering wheel. “Seriously?”

He nods, his attention still on the road. “I’ve been thinking about what Liam said, you know, about me going public with what happened to me and Ryan. I was awake all night thinking about it.”

Now that I look at him more closely, I notice the faint shadows under his eyes, which nearly match mine. Mine are a shade or two darker, but that’s nothing new.

I settle my hand on his thigh and stroke my thumb against the soft denim. “You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, Marcus.”

He places his hand on mine and interlaces our fingers. “But I do have to do it, and I want to. What Liam said made sense.” He gently squeezes my fingers. “Plus, your life has been splashed on the front page of every newspaper. The least I can do is admit what happened to me. I might not be allowed to say Frank’s name, but I can at least tell mine and Ryan’s story.” He cringes. Not because he’s going to reveal what his stepfather did to him, but because he’s going public with what happened to Ryan as well. The story he swore to his dying brother he would never tell.

But if Ryan is watching from heaven, I’m positive he’ll be proud of his brother. Because in the end Marcus is turning his horrifying childhood into something good. Something that will benefit other kids like him.

Ryan can’t fault him for that.

We arrive at the studio on time and are hurried to the makeup station for a quick touch-up. Much to Marcus’s chagrin. I laugh at his expression, but he can’t complain. Neither of us is coated with makeup like Olivia. No wonder I didn’t recognize her when I first met her at the vigil. She looked younger, more natural than she does now.

“You ready?” she asks, smiling. There’s something reassuring about her smile. It’s as if the tap to my emotions has been turned on to a fast drip, draining away some of the tension.

I smile back and nod. I can do this.

We’re directed to the green room, where we wait until it’s our turn.

The production assistant, a girl a few years older than me, fetches us after ten minutes. “It’s time.” Her tone is a mix of cheery and excited.

She leads us down the hallway, chatting as she goes, and flashes appreciative glances at Marcus. He doesn’t notice. His focus is straight ahead, hands fisted.

I wrap my hand around his and give it a light squeeze, like he gave me in his car. We’re in this together and I’m proud of what he’s about to do. Of what we’re both about to do.

While the show is paused for a commercial break, the production assistant shows us to the couch and the sound person descends on us. He connects a tiny microphone to Marcus’s shirt and one to my blouse. Then he asks us each a question before walking away.

Olivia gives us the same reassuring smile as earlier. “You two will be great.”

A bald-headed man tells her we’re on in five, and counts down with his fingers...Four. Three. Two.

And we’re on.

“Welcome back,” Olivia says, her long blond hair glowing under the hot stage lights. “I’d like to welcome our next guests, Amber Scott and Marcus Reid.”

A moment of panic slams into me. What if this is all a lie and she’s planning to ask us questions about the trial and all the controversy bubbling around us like boiling lava?

My heart jumps up, eager to scramble its way out of my throat and out of the studio.

But then I remember what’s at stake if she does. After Olivia contacted me to confirm the show, I talked to my mom, the D.A., and my lawyer, Sheryl. We discussed the benefit of my doing the show and how to make sure I wasn’t jeopardizing the case. In the end, Sheryl gave Olivia a contract to sign, outlining the questions that were acceptable to ask. In turn, Olivia gave me her questions ahead of time so that I’d be more comfortable during the interview. If only the defense would do that for the trial.

“As many of you are aware, Amber was stalked and kidnapped while in her senior year of high school. Because her alleged kidnapper’s case is going to trial soon, we won’t be discussing details about her ordeal last year. Amber will be sharing tips to keep you and your family safe. Things she had to learn the hard way. Because contrary to what many people believe, stalking isn’t exclusive to Hollywood. Isn’t that right, Amber?”

Without looking too obvious about it, I rub my hands against the soft fabric of the couch, conscious not to start tapping my fingers against my thigh. “That’s right. It’s estimated six million people each year will be stalked. This number includes those individuals involved in relationships that have turned abusive, either now or in the past.”

The more Olivia and I talk, the more relaxed I become. She’s living up to her promise, and everyone in the audience is listening to me as if I’m telling them the winning numbers to next week’s lottery. Some women nod, as if they know what I’m talking about, as if they too have been stalked in one capacity or another. No one’s judging me. All they want is to learn how to protect themselves and their loved ones.

“Thank you, Amber,” Olivia says once I’m finished. Her smile tells me I did well. I rocked my first television interview.

She then changes the topic to the one Marcus has been dreading most. “Amber, you and Marcus have been organizing a special basketball tournament at UIC. Can you tell us more about it?”

I subtly brush my hand against Marcus’s. He releases an equally subtle long breath, which does nothing to ease his nerves. Tension rolls off him like a thick fog off the lake, but I suspect I’m the only who notices. Everyone else just sees a good-looking guy.

“While I was a kid,” he says, voice smooth, unaffected, “my brother and I were victims of domestic abuse. Our stepfather used to hit us. We felt we had nowhere to turn, so we kept silent. In our teens the abuse continued, but things grew worse. He...he sexually assaulted me and raped my older brother.” A collective gasp rises from the audience.

I glance at Olivia. The reassuring smile has vanished, to be replaced with the same look of horror everyone else wears.

“Again, we told no one,” Marcus continues. “We were afraid we would be put in the system and separated. We couldn’t handle that. My brother died last year trying to protect me from our stepfather. Amber and I started organizing the fund-raiser so I could buy my brother the gravestone he deserves—instead of the small place marker currently indicating where he’s buried—and also so we could donate proceeds to the Chicago Little Heroes Center.”

“What is the CLHC?” Olivia asks, not missing a beat.

“They help kids who are at risk of being sexually abused, and kids who have been abused and are now struggling to cope.”

Olivia asks questions about the event, all which Marcus easily answers.

“Is it correct to assume your stepfather is currently serving time?”

Marcus shakes his head. “Unfortunately not. Because it happened a long time ago, the cops can’t prove anything. I know there are other victims who have been sexually abused by my stepfather, but none are willing to step forward. And without that, he could remain free, and won’t be listed as a sexual offender.”

“Why do you think no one else will come forward?”

“They’re scared. Ryan and I—” his Adam’s apple slides uneasily up, then down “—Ryan and I didn’t tell anyone because we were afraid of what others would think of us if the truth came out. We were ashamed. This is the same fear that keeps other boys from coming forward. But it’s also this fear and shame that lets my stepfather continue to hurt others.” The pain and guilt etched on his face causes tears to well in my eyes.

And I’m not alone. A number of women in the audience brush away the tears from their cheeks.

This time when I touch his hand, the gesture isn’t subtle. I thread my fingers with his and hold on tight.

Olivia clears her throat. She’s a professional, but it’s clear his words have had an impact on her like they have on everyone else. “It takes strong individuals to do what you two are doing in the face of everything you’ve gone through. I hope it inspires other victims to find their voice and get help.” She turns to the camera. “We’ll return in a moment after our sponsors’ messages.”