The next day, my father is still in the house so I eat breakfast with him before heading to school. In the main office, I enjoy the hell out of making the secretary change my schedule. Now I have classes I can be excited about, and maybe if I push, I can still get into a school with a decent science department. After all the weird shit that’s happened, I kind of want to study neurology now instead of bioengineering.
All things considered, my mood is bright as I step into the hall. The silence hits me first, and then I notice how everyone is parting like the Red Sea. Men in uniform make their way toward me, each step measured like they’re moving to the unheard strains of a funeral march. My phone pings, but as I check it, I already know.
I know.
The message from Oscar is succinct. They found out it’s you.
Part of me wonders how they put it together or if Creepy Jack confessed. Either way it doesn’t matter. I don’t move, just wait, until the policemen surround me as if I’m a flight risk. But when the oldest one speaks, it’s in a gentle voice. “We need you to come with us, Miss Frost. We have some questions.”
In my heart I know nothing about this will be gentle, so his approach feels like a lie. It would be better if they slapped me up front and gave me the scarlet letter now. Only it wouldn’t be an A; in our world, it would be an S for slut. Good girls don’t mess around like that, good girls don’t get hurt.
“I wonder what she did,” someone whispers.
Soon it’ll probably be “She deserved it” or “She was asking for it.” They’ll dissect my behavior and the clothes I wear, like anything can be classified that way. The world is more complicated than that. Most of all, I hate that some of them will think Morgan is a victim. She would despise that, even if it’s true.
Quietly I follow them out to the waiting car. They put me in back, but they’re careful to explain, “You’re not in any trouble. Don’t be frightened.”
I’m not. I’m numb instead. Since I asked Oscar to turn in the pictures, I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Now I finally get to see how bad this gets. A phrase pops into my head: For the guilty to be punished, the innocent must be hurt.
The officers talk quietly in the front seat, as if they know I must be handled with kid gloves or my father will sue them down to skin and bones. That’s probably true, but I think he will care more about the shame-stains this affair leaves behind than any real damage to me. Sometimes I think he sees me as property, like a car or a lamp. It reminds me of a movie I saw, where the women were literally owned, but they rebelled and wrote WE ARE NOT THINGS on the wall.
I’m writing it over and over in my mind as they take me to the station. The silver-haired one says, “We tried to get in touch with your father but his secretary said he’s in an important meeting and took a message. But don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll come soon.”
Story of my life.
We shake hands like this is a social occasion. The older one is Officer Danby. His partner is Officer Gutierrez. Neither one can meet my gaze without twitching away. They see me as a pathetic, damaged girl, and the weight of their discomfort makes everything worse. I’m pretty sure their victim-sensitivity trainer didn’t mean for them to treat me like a broken vase.
After seating me in an interview room, they offer tea and stale pastries. I decline. They’re clearly stalling. Because they don’t know what to do with a quiet girl who understands that her father is not coming. The cops haven’t figured this out yet because that’s what parents do; they drop everything and run. They run with arms open for hugs and they whisper, “It’ll be okay.” At least that’s what Liv’s parents would’ve done. There would’ve been yelling, too, and some angry words and tears and more hugging, anything but silence.
Silence is death.
My chest hurts. I won’t cry. I won’t. I told Oscar I understood how bad it could get and this is only the beginning. If this is public knowledge now, school will be a nightmare. I breathe out, in, out again, studying the specks on the table. Randall Frost’s behavior is puzzling.
But it’s not like he’s my father.
Not really.
Maybe he’s honestly in a meeting.
An hour ticks away and finally Officer Danby says, “What would you like to do, Miss Frost? We can wait for your father. We can go pick him up. We can—”
“Can we just get this over with?” I’m aware that since I’m only seventeen and a half, I’m probably supposed to have a guardian with me for this interview, but the idea of going over the details with Randall Frost in the room makes me want to throw up.
“All right, we’ll do what we can to expedite.” The older cop hurries out.
I check my phone. There are four local gossip sites already running the headline “Frost Tech Heiress Unveiled…” or some variant IDing me as Creepy Jack’s lover. My heart pounds so loud and hard it feels like it’s coming from my throat. As I’m about to shut my cell off, it pings.
Clay: You okay?
I guess he’s heard.
But before I can reply, a woman in a wrinkled suit comes in with the older cop. She has social worker written all over her. She must be my parental stand-in to make sure I’m not abused by the system. The recorder comes out, along with pens and pencils. And the questions, they are endless. Invasive. Sometimes insulting, even if they don’t mean to be.
“Yes, I was fifteen. Yes, it was consensual.”
As it turns out, Morgan wasn’t old enough to consent. Even if she said yes, it doesn’t count. The two cops talk in hushed tones, supposedly out of my earshot, about statutory rape and child enticement charges. Since I agree that Creepy Jack needs to be punished, I let the words wash over me like vindication. If I suffer, so will he.
More questions follow. I answer everything. I can’t always give them dates but sometimes I can. This is normal, the social worker says. She tries to show empathy with a kind expression, but the throbbing between my eyes makes it impossible for me to appreciate her efforts. We break for lunch, which I can’t eat for an encyclopedia of reasons, then they resume the interrogation.
“Are you willing to testify?” Officer Gutierrez finally asks.
“It may be difficult,” the social worker adds.
I nod.
Whatever Morgan intended initially, this is what I’m doing with her plan. She was too tired to see this through, so I’ll carry it for her and for every girl who ever got her head screwed up by a distant father and then went looking for some man, any man, to fill the silence.
Everything passes. I can do this.
“That’s all we need for now, Miss Frost.” Officer Gutierrez tells me a bunch of legal stuff about how the case will proceed and what I can expect next, but I just want to leave.
“We’ll take you home now.”
I take that as my cue and stand. “My car’s still at school. If you could drive me there, that would be great.”
It’s so late that there shouldn’t be anyone around. Even the extracurricular activities will be over. The cops agree to do that, but they want to escort me home. I’m not sure why, maybe to protect me in case Creepy Jack tries something or maybe if the paparazzi descends on Renton. This is a pretty juicy scandal, since I’m underage. I don’t argue; it’s taking all my energy to stay calm and to pretend I don’t feel violated by all those questions. I saw judgment in their faces as I admitted to motel meetings and sneaking out late at night.
My daughter would never, they’re thinking. She’s a good girl. Shit like this doesn’t happen to good girls.
Except it does, and they don’t want us to talk about it. We’re supposed to sweep it under the rug and take prescription medication and make eye contact with people who silently, secretly hurt us. How many dinners have I eaten with my father and Jack Patterson? How many? Nobody ever looks directly at the woman sobbing hysterically on the sidewalk, right? People circle wide and pretend it’s not happening.
I can do this. One breath at a time.