Chapter 18

 

Truth or Justice

 

 

Melissa

 

 

I sat alone in the apartment for two days before I finally picked up the phone and called someone for help. I tried to be strong and believe in all the words I’d said to myself only days before, but the truth was that I was too exhausted to fight. My body hurt, and my mind constantly replayed the rape. I knew that I wouldn’t be able to battle the demons by myself anymore. I needed help to heal, and there was only one person who had always been there for me: my mother.

“Mom, I need you,” I cried into the phone for help.

“Melissa, what’s wrong, honey?” Her voice was soft.

“Please. I need you to come here.”

“Okay, honey. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Please, tell me what’s wrong.” The panic in her voice rushed through the phone.

“I can’t. Please don’t hate me.” That was the last thing I said as I hung up the phone. I knew that my mother would worry and fear the worst, but I didn’t have the words. She called repeatedly, but I wouldn’t answer. I couldn’t tell her on the phone what had happened.

What would I say? “Mom, I was raped, and your best friend’s husband paid me for sex.”

My mother and father arrived in less than twenty-four hours after my call. She’d packed their bags, and then they drove the fifteen hours straight from Myrtle Beach to Evanston. I knew they would have questions about the apartment and why I wasn’t in a dorm like I’d told them. I wasn’t able or willing to talk about it. I just needed my mother to comfort me.

From the time she arrived, my mother held me and let me cry, never questioning what had happened. Bruises and marks were still visible all over my body. She had to know, but allowed me the opportunity to cope without demanding answers.

My father tried his best to be patient, but he wanted and needed to know who hurt his daughter. He pushed for details—he wanted someone punished. I wasn’t able or ready to open up to anyone. It would be hard enough to tell my mother. How does one tell her father she was raped? It was my mother who convinced my father to head back to Myrtle Beach. She knew it would be easier for me if we were alone.

Peyton became the hero when my mother learned how much he’d helped me over the months. He added insult to injury when he stopped by the apartment to offer us the use of his private plane to return us home instead of flying commercial. But it was all an act. He was a chameleon. The minute my mother left the room, his fury rained down on me. He reached over and squeezed my upper arm, pulling me closer. “Melissa, if they find out the truth about us, you’ll regret it.”

“You’re hurting me.”

“Sweetheart, you haven’t felt hurt yet.” Though his voice was low, the heat of his breath was on my ear. “Remember what I said. I pulled some strings. Your rape report and the evidence they collected have been destroyed. As far as the police are concerned, you had a misunderstanding with Spencer. Sex games. Do. You. Understand?”

“Yes.” My resolve to not let him see more of my emotion dissolved as tears fell.

Peyton pulled me into his embrace as my mother walked back into the room. “Everything will be okay, Melissa. You can come back to work at Harrison.” He patted me on the back. His last words were under his breath. “Never step foot in my company again, or you will regret it.”

“Peyton,” my mother said. “I can't thank you enough for everything.” She came closer and hugged him.

I stared in disbelief as he fucking smiled at her and patted my arm where only moments before he’d had it in a death grip. It made me sick how quickly and easily he’d lied, not to mention the way my mother fawned over his kindness. It wasn’t my mother’s fault she praised him so much. Hell, I’d been the one who’d told her the damn lie in the first place.

Once Peyton left, I fell into my mother's arms and bared my soul, telling her everything that had happened with Bryce, everything except his name. She listened and never judged or criticized me for any of my actions. Of course, she only knew half the story. I couldn’t risk any more than I’d already lost.

Though, I still wanted Bryce to pay for what he did, I hoped if I walked away quietly, Peyton and Infidelity wouldn't pursue me. It was my only comfort in the nightmare.

We flew home the following week. When I packed, I left one item in the apartment that I’d brought—the key necklace. I didn't want any memories of this fucking place or of Peyton.

From the time we arrived home, my father never stopped badgering me. His insistence to contact the police never ended, but I refused. He wanted both legal and monetary compensation for me. The person who hurt me needed to be brought to justice and the apartment building needed to pay financially for lack of security.

“Melissa, you deserve for someone to be punished. If we sue that damn apartment complex for your being hurt, you could go to any college you want,” my father bellowed at me.

Damn, didn’t he think I wanted justice for what happened to me? I was scared. I had to worry about more than Bryce. I also had Infidelity and Peyton hanging over my head. I lived in fear, thinking of all of the Infidelity rules that I’d broken. Recalling the dismissal letter, the possible penalties they could enforce against me kept me up most nights.

Over a month had passed since I had arrived home, and no one had contacted me. The nightmares of the rape were regular—every night and often all-night long. The only positive thing was that Peyton no longer haunted me. He had moved on with his life and left me alone. I kept close tabs on Bryce through tabloids. He had gone back to Savannah and the life that waited for him. It made me sick every time his image was captured in the paper, smiling and happy.

Fuck, even though I still wanted that bastard to pay, I’d begun to believe that as long as I kept my mouth shut, I would be safe. Besides, revenge was best served cold. Isn’t that the saying?

I’d spent too much time alone, replaying the last six months in my head. I needed to move on and live my life. To that end, I decided to sign up for online classes for the fall semester. Business no longer interested me. I wanted to do something that would allow me to help other people. At first, I decided upon nursing school. And then I changed my mind, deciding to help other abused women, possibly as a counselor.

Perhaps Bryce’s fan-club bitch nurse was one of the reasons I changed from my original major of business and into a profession that helped people. I just hoped that one day she and karma would have a nice get-together that included Bryce.

“Melissa, you have mail,” my mother said as she walked back toward my room and knocked on the open door. “How was today?”

“Better.” I smiled at her.

She handed me the letter. “There’s no return address.”

My brow arched, and panic soared through me as my mother turned to walk away.

“Mom, please stay.”

She nodded and took my hand.

I flipped it over. It was just a plain white envelope typed with my name and address. I pulled the flap open and found a newspaper clipping folded in half, and a sticky note was attached to the inside.

 

Melissa,

Call Tim at 312-xxx-xxxx

 

I pulled off the sticky note and read the headline.

 

“Another Rape Cover-up or Was it a Hoax?”

 

A cold shiver shook my body and a coating of sweat covered my skin as I scanned the article. Who the hell knew about this, and who the hell would want it public?

The answer to the second question was no one. So who had opened the Pandora’s box? The article detailed all of my injuries, dates of the incident, and even a copy of my medical report with my name blacked out. The first line was in bold.

 

Edward Bryce Spencer of Savannah, Georgia, was accused of raping an eighteen-year-old student of Northwestern University in Evanston, Illinois. Mr. Spencer denied the claim, stating that the act was consensual. After the incident and the initial charge, the student disappeared and hasn’t reported back to Northwestern. An Internet search has found this student back in her hometown of Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. Another cover-up? Why were the charges never filed, and where did the initial report go?

 

The article didn’t end there. It included the location of the alleged rape, including the address, and listed Peyton Harrison as the leaseholder.

Terror surged through me, my body falling to the floor as I wrapped my arms around myself. Lying in the fetal position, I closed my eyes and rocked, praying it would all go away.

“Melissa! Melissa! Oh my God, what’s wrong?” My mother’s voice rose each time she called my name, and yet each time she was more distant as I entered my own world.

Screams I didn’t even recognize erupted from inside me as fear pushed me back into the past. Time stopped, and I was transported back into Peyton’s bedroom with Bryce on top of me. All of the pain and memories flashed back until I saw only black.

“Melissa, darling, are you awake?” my mother asked as she lay on my bed next to me, her arms tightly wrapped around my waist.

“Yeah, Mom, please tell me it was a dream. I can’t relive it again. I can’t.” I rolled into my mother’s embrace for comfort.

“Darling, I wish I could, but I can’t.” She lifted my chin so that our eyes would meet and smiled. Sitting up, my mother reached for my hairbrush on the nightstand and softly pulled it through my hair as she did when I was a little girl. She combed through it and held me and let me cry until sleep overtook me.

The sun was shining through my window as voices rang from the other room, waking me from my rest. “Why would you release the report to the press? Melissa was just starting to live her life again.” My mother sounded angry. Though her voice was low, every word held contempt.

“Someone needed to pay,” my father replied. “Fuck, Maggie. Melissa won’t go to the police. At least this way someone is held accountable. These people have millions, and the only thing they understand is money.”

“How did you even find out the name?”

“Maggie,” Regina’s voice said, “someone needs to be punished.”

“Keep your voice down. Melissa finally fell asleep.”

My angry mother seemed to be the only person who cared more about me than fucking justice or money.

I couldn’t take anymore. The little bit I’d overheard told me enough.

My father was responsible for the news release. He was the one who’d opened a Pandora’s box. I grabbed my phone, car keys, and the article that was on my dresser and went out the back door before anyone would see me. I drove to the same spot on the beach where I had sat the night of my graduation dinner.

The air was warm, and the sun shone down on the sand filled with people. As many people that were here, the beach was still somewhere I could be alone. I debated in my head what I needed to do next.

Calls to Peyton and Infidelity were at the top of the list. I needed to forewarn them of the fallout. It wasn’t like I owed them loyalty. I considered it more of a preemptive strike. I also wondered if I should call the guy from the sticky note and explain that the incident was a misunderstanding—as Peyton had called it—but my stomach clenched and twisted with that lie.

I didn’t want this circus. I also refused to ruin any more of my life or reputation. My father had opened the Pandora's box. He thought it contained the answer to justice. It didn’t. It held my life, and now once again, it was in shambles.

When I reached for my phone, the one I’d silenced, I saw the screen. I had nine missed phone calls. Hell, on a typical day, I wouldn’t have any calls at all. I scrolled the numbers—five missed calls were from my mother. I’d gone to the beach because I didn’t want to talk to anyone—not even her. And then I thought about just sending her a text, but after all she’d done for me, she deserved a call to let her know that I was okay and just needed some time to be alone.

Three of the numbers were from Illinois, and one was unknown. I listened to the voicemails left.

 

Detective March: “Miss Summers, I need you to call me.”

Detective March: “Miss Summers, please call. It is urgent that you return my call.”

Detective March: “Miss Summers. If I do not hear from you, a subpoena will be issued for you to return to Evanston to give a formal statement.”

 

The last message was from someone else.

 

Bryce: “You fucking whore. Do you think that you or your white-trash family can ruin my life with blackmail? I will destroy you.”