Deceiving Lies
Page 56
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I wanted to scream. I wanted to remind her that he’d taken her from me. That he’d kept her from me and had me believing she was being tortured. I wanted to know why she’d let him kiss her. I just wanted to f**king throw something. That must be why they didn’t have tables or chairs in the observation room. And I completely stopped breathing when Byson asked his next question.
“Rachel, did you and Mr. Trent Cruz have any form of a sexual relationship while you were in captivity?”
“N-no! No! He— No! We just . . . No!” She licked her lips quickly and turned to face the one-way mirror.
I stared into her blue eyes through the glass for a few seconds before I turned and walked out the door. There was so much pain radiating through my chest, it felt like I couldn’t breathe. I’d been prepared for her to be hurt. I’d been prepared for her to have some things to work through if we got her out okay. I hadn’t been ready for this.
18
Rachel
AFTER FOUR HOURS AT THE STATION, and another three and a half hours in a hospital receiving a sexual assault examination and checking the bruising to the front of my body to make sure there were no broken bones, I was released and allowed to go home.
Logan hadn’t spoken a word to me since before we’d arrived at the station, and now we were standing in our living room just staring at each other.
I’d envisioned being with him again so many times while I’d been in that room with Trent. Each one had us rushing to each other, kissing each other like we needed the other to breathe, and different variations of him making love to me, and us finally getting married. Not one of them had been like this, not one of them had made me sick to my stomach with guilt that I didn’t know if I should have or not. And not one of them involved me wishing Trent were still here with me.
Despite the questions from the detectives, I wasn’t in love with Trent. Even though I’d been adamant that we hadn’t had a sexual relationship, I wasn’t sure how to describe our kisses in the final half hour; or the fact that I knew that he wanted me without making it seem like the kidnapping could have been something it wasn’t. So I’d stumbled over my words, and in turn had received the sexual assault exam, which I’d rather not go through again.
I wasn’t in love with Trent, and I didn’t have Stockholm syndrome. I just understood him in a way no one else ever had. I hadn’t known about the torture, though I’m sure Trent had, but I still knew he’d had no part in it, even if no one else believed me. And trying to clear his name just made it look worse for my “relationship” with him.
I could only imagine that was part of the reason Logan was staring at me like he wasn’t sure he could speak without crying or punching something.
“Logan—”
“Why don’t you, um”—he cleared his throat and looked up at the ceiling—“why don’t you go shower? I’ll order some food.”
“Logan, please—”
“Do you want anything in particular?”
My jaw started trembling and I blinked back more tears before I shook my head. Of course I wanted something, just not food. I wanted to never have been kidnapped. I wanted my fiancé to look at me like he was still in love with me, instead of looking like I’d betrayed him by going along with the hand I’d been dealt.
I turned before the tears began falling and quickly made my way to the shower. The route was familiar, but at the same time, so foreign. It felt like I should be clinging to Trent’s shirt, like I should be watching out for any of the others to suddenly pop out of the shadows and grab me. It felt wrong to be in the bathroom alone with no one keeping guard. But I knew I needed to get used to my normal.
Or, well, what my normal used to be.
I mechanically went through the motions of getting clean and scrubbing every particle of Trent’s dried blood off me while trying not to think about whose blood it was, or how it had gotten on me in the first place. Twice while in the shower, I’d lost the battle with trying to keep my cries silent, and the last time my legs had given out from the exhaustion of the day . . . of the last thirty-six days.
I wasn’t sure I even knew what I was crying for anymore. It’s funny how when in the situation, in the moment, those bits and pieces didn’t seem like that big of a deal, or seemed like something I could easily handle. Then once it was all over, it was like a tidal wave had just crashed down on me and I was standing there confused, not knowing what to do, or how to act, or what to say anymore. All I knew was the exhaustion, and the terror, and the grief. All I could do was sit there for countless minutes until the water was cold and my tears were long gone before I could finally turn the water off and pull myself up.
In the same robotlike state, I dried myself off, brushed my hair and teeth, and went about finding my own pajamas. I stood there just staring at them, letting my fingers run over the material on my body, and wondering if I would ever be able to go back to wearing Logan’s clothes in bed again. Or if men’s shirts had been ruined for me forever.
Forcing my mind away from the direction it had been headed, I purposefully didn’t look in the mirror on my way out of the bathroom, not wanting to see the bruises on my body again. I walked down the hall and had almost reached the living room when I heard his harsh voice.
“No, Mom . . . no— What wedding, Mom?— There’s not going to be a wedding— Because she’s not the same Rachel anymore, that’s why!”
“Rachel, did you and Mr. Trent Cruz have any form of a sexual relationship while you were in captivity?”
“N-no! No! He— No! We just . . . No!” She licked her lips quickly and turned to face the one-way mirror.
I stared into her blue eyes through the glass for a few seconds before I turned and walked out the door. There was so much pain radiating through my chest, it felt like I couldn’t breathe. I’d been prepared for her to be hurt. I’d been prepared for her to have some things to work through if we got her out okay. I hadn’t been ready for this.
18
Rachel
AFTER FOUR HOURS AT THE STATION, and another three and a half hours in a hospital receiving a sexual assault examination and checking the bruising to the front of my body to make sure there were no broken bones, I was released and allowed to go home.
Logan hadn’t spoken a word to me since before we’d arrived at the station, and now we were standing in our living room just staring at each other.
I’d envisioned being with him again so many times while I’d been in that room with Trent. Each one had us rushing to each other, kissing each other like we needed the other to breathe, and different variations of him making love to me, and us finally getting married. Not one of them had been like this, not one of them had made me sick to my stomach with guilt that I didn’t know if I should have or not. And not one of them involved me wishing Trent were still here with me.
Despite the questions from the detectives, I wasn’t in love with Trent. Even though I’d been adamant that we hadn’t had a sexual relationship, I wasn’t sure how to describe our kisses in the final half hour; or the fact that I knew that he wanted me without making it seem like the kidnapping could have been something it wasn’t. So I’d stumbled over my words, and in turn had received the sexual assault exam, which I’d rather not go through again.
I wasn’t in love with Trent, and I didn’t have Stockholm syndrome. I just understood him in a way no one else ever had. I hadn’t known about the torture, though I’m sure Trent had, but I still knew he’d had no part in it, even if no one else believed me. And trying to clear his name just made it look worse for my “relationship” with him.
I could only imagine that was part of the reason Logan was staring at me like he wasn’t sure he could speak without crying or punching something.
“Logan—”
“Why don’t you, um”—he cleared his throat and looked up at the ceiling—“why don’t you go shower? I’ll order some food.”
“Logan, please—”
“Do you want anything in particular?”
My jaw started trembling and I blinked back more tears before I shook my head. Of course I wanted something, just not food. I wanted to never have been kidnapped. I wanted my fiancé to look at me like he was still in love with me, instead of looking like I’d betrayed him by going along with the hand I’d been dealt.
I turned before the tears began falling and quickly made my way to the shower. The route was familiar, but at the same time, so foreign. It felt like I should be clinging to Trent’s shirt, like I should be watching out for any of the others to suddenly pop out of the shadows and grab me. It felt wrong to be in the bathroom alone with no one keeping guard. But I knew I needed to get used to my normal.
Or, well, what my normal used to be.
I mechanically went through the motions of getting clean and scrubbing every particle of Trent’s dried blood off me while trying not to think about whose blood it was, or how it had gotten on me in the first place. Twice while in the shower, I’d lost the battle with trying to keep my cries silent, and the last time my legs had given out from the exhaustion of the day . . . of the last thirty-six days.
I wasn’t sure I even knew what I was crying for anymore. It’s funny how when in the situation, in the moment, those bits and pieces didn’t seem like that big of a deal, or seemed like something I could easily handle. Then once it was all over, it was like a tidal wave had just crashed down on me and I was standing there confused, not knowing what to do, or how to act, or what to say anymore. All I knew was the exhaustion, and the terror, and the grief. All I could do was sit there for countless minutes until the water was cold and my tears were long gone before I could finally turn the water off and pull myself up.
In the same robotlike state, I dried myself off, brushed my hair and teeth, and went about finding my own pajamas. I stood there just staring at them, letting my fingers run over the material on my body, and wondering if I would ever be able to go back to wearing Logan’s clothes in bed again. Or if men’s shirts had been ruined for me forever.
Forcing my mind away from the direction it had been headed, I purposefully didn’t look in the mirror on my way out of the bathroom, not wanting to see the bruises on my body again. I walked down the hall and had almost reached the living room when I heard his harsh voice.
“No, Mom . . . no— What wedding, Mom?— There’s not going to be a wedding— Because she’s not the same Rachel anymore, that’s why!”
