Promise You Won't Tell? (4 page)

“Yes, ma’am. I asked them about it.”

“What did they say?”

“They didn’t want to get caught. They were afraid Lydia—Mrs. Underhill—would find out they’d been drinking.”

“Makes sense,” I say.

I take a minute to think about everything she said. Then ask the big question.

“Tell me about the boys.”

“There were ten guys in two cars. One of them texted Kelli and said they were in the driveway.”

“What time was that?”

“Around eleven-thirty, I think. Something like that.”

“And Mrs. Underhill was upstairs in the guest bedroom with the door closed?”

“Yes ma’am. She might have been asleep, or watching TV.”

“Who let the boys in the house?”

“Kelli.”

“And her mom never knew?”

“I don’t think so.”

“They just happened to show up at the right time?”

“Ma’am?”

Her constant use of the word “ma’am” is driving me crazy. I’m twenty-four years old. Young enough to be her sister. Would you call your sister “ma’am?” Should your slightly-older sister call you “child?”

I ask, “Was it just a coincidence they showed up at Kelli’s soon after her mom went to bed?”

“No ma’am. They’d been exchanging text messages with Kelli all night.”

“Did the boys know you were there?”

She thinks a minute. Then says, “I’m not sure.”

“Did they see you?”

She studies the Galileo thermometer on my desk for a minute. It’s a sealed glass cylinder filled with liquid. Inside are five multi-colored floats that rise or fall depending on the room temperature.

“I like this piece,” she says.

“Thanks.”

She points to the lowest float above the halfway mark. “Does this mean it’s seventy-two in here?”

I nod.

She says, “We were in the basement, drinking. When the guys showed up, the girls jumped up and ran to let them in. I jumped up too, but felt like I was going to throw up. So I went up the back stairs.”

“No one came looking for you?”

She shakes her head no.

“Why not?”

“I think they all sort of forgot about me when the boys showed up.”

“And you didn’t wake up till the next morning?”

“No ma’am.”

“What were you wearing?”

“Pajamas.”

“Bra and panties underneath?”

“Panties. No bra.”

“Did the pajama top have buttons? Or was it a pull-over?”

“Pull-over.”

She looks at the thermometer some more.

I say, “What do you think happened to you that night?”

“I think I was molested.”

“By whom?”

Riley’s eyes are suddenly full of tears. A couple spill down her cheeks. She dabs at them with her hand.

“I’m not positive anything happened,” she says. “Or who might have done it. It could have been one person, or…”

Her voice trails off.

“Or what?”

“Everyone.”

“The girls
and
boys? You think it’s possible your girlfriends would let that happen to you?”

“No. It’s just that…I have no idea who might be involved. I’m just saying I can’t rule anyone out. If something happened, it was probably one boy. Or maybe two. Because the girls wouldn’t have let all those boys roam around the house by themselves.”

“But one or two boys might have snuck up the back steps?”

She nods.

“Tell me what you mean by ‘molested.’”

“They might have…you know,
touched
me. Inappropriately.”

She starts shaking, and her tears start flowing, as if saying the words was all it took to open the floodgates. I reach across the desk and put my hand on hers. When she looks up at me I say, “Do you have any reason to suspect you were sexually assaulted?”

“You mean…”

“Any evidence you were penetrated?”

Her eyes go wide. “No, ma’am!”

“But you think you were touched? Groped?”

She pauses. Then says, “Not just that.”

I look at her. “What else?”

“I’m pretty sure someone undressed me, too.”

I hand her a tissue and wait till she stops crying.

After she composes herself I say, “When you woke up, were your clothes on?”

She nods.

“Then why do you think someone undressed you?”

“At school today, Rick Hooper said something. Right out-of-the-blue.”

“Was Rick at the house that night?”

“No, ma’am. He’s a nerd.”

I frown. “Why would you say that?”

“I just meant that Rick wouldn’t have been invited to ride around town with the cool guys.”

“What did Rick say to you at school today, out-of-the-blue?”

“He gave me this sly sort of grin and said, ‘I heard you passed out at the sleepover, Strawberry.’”

“Is that your nickname?”

“No.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You know how some people have tattoos on their lower back, like one of those fancy script things, with maybe a heart in the middle?”

I nod, wondering where she’s taking me with this conversation.

She says, “I always wondered what it would look like to have one. Of course, my mom would
never
go for that! So anyway, when I was in my closet getting dressed to go to the sleepover I noticed an old sticker book from when I was a kid. I peeled off a little sticker of a strawberry, and put it…you know, down there.”

“Under your panties?”

She looks down at her hands, and I notice her ears and neck turning red. And her cheeks.

“Yes, ma’am. I was hoping to find something bigger I could stick on my lower back, just to—you know, look at it? Just for fun? I’d look at it in the mirror, then throw it away. But all I had in the sticker book was the little strawberry, so I put it in a private place in the front. I looked at it and thought it looked kind of cool, but then the doorbell rang, and I threw my clothes back on and forgot all about it.”

“This happened the night of the sleepover?”

She nods.

“While you were still at your house?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Who rang your door bell?”

“Parker. Her mom gave me a ride to Kelli’s house.”

“Did you tell Parker about the strawberry sticker?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“For one thing, I forgot all about it when Parker showed up. But even if I
had
remembered, I’d be too embarrassed to talk about it.”

“Why? You’re best friends. It’s sort of funny.”

“What if she
told
someone? I’d be mortified!”

“Why?”

“Seriously, Ms. Ripper? A
strawberry
?”

I shrug. “I’ve seen worse.”

She gives me a look of concern.

I say, “Parker’s mom picked her up from Kelli’s around midnight?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Any reason she might not want Parker spending the night at Kelli’s house?”

“Parker had church the next morning. Her mom didn’t want her up all night.”

“Who took you home Sunday morning?”

“My mom.”

“Did you say anything to her about what might have happened?”

“I didn’t know anything might have happened till yesterday at school, when Rick Hooper called me Strawberry. But I wouldn’t have said anything to my mom anyway. That would be too weird.”

“So she didn’t know you were drinking, or that Kelli let boys in the house.”

“No ma’am.”

“Did you and Parker talk about what happened that night?”

“She said everyone went back down to the basement to hang out and drink. Parker figured I was in the bathroom. When her mom called to say she was on the way, Parker told everyone goodbye, and went upstairs to check on me.”

“Did she find you?”

“No ma’am. She checked the rooms and bathrooms on the main floor, but didn’t have time to go upstairs because by then her mom showed up.”

“Did you tell Parker what Rick Hooper said?”

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“Parker’s my best friend. If I told her what happened, she’d flip out and start accusing people. By tomorrow, the whole school would be talking about it.”

“So you came to me, hoping I could conduct a secret investigation?”

“Can you?”

“No.”

“How about a quiet one?”

“Probably not. But I can try.”

“How much would it cost?”

I smile. “How much do you have?”

“Four hundred dollars.”

I give her a look.

She says, “Four hundred and twenty-seven dollars, to be exact. This is money I saved from babysitting, birthdays, and Christmas cash. I’ve earned a lot more through odd-jobs and part-time work, but last year I started a charitable foundation, so I put the rest of my money into that.”

I say, “Riley, I can’t take your case.”

Her face falls.

She says, “I could pay you more, over time.”

“It’s not the money. It’s the fact you’re a minor. I can’t enter into a contract with you without your parents’ permission.”

“I don’t have a father. And I can’t tell my mom yet. She’ll freak. And what if I’m wrong? I’d be getting her all worked up for nothing.”

I sigh.

“Is there anything you can do?” she asks. “Without involving my mother?”

I think about it. “I suppose I can ask around, see what I can find out.”

Her face lights up.

“I’d be asking as a friend of the family, not officially.”

“Okay.”

“But there’s something you need to know, Riley.”

She looks at me. “What?”

“People talk.”

“What do you mean?”

“Whether something happened or not, everyone I talk to will tell someone else. What I’m saying, we won’t be able to keep a lid on this. And if something actually
did
happen, you’ll want to file criminal charges.”

“This wouldn’t go to trial, would it? Since they’re all juveniles?”

“More likely, some sort of hearing. But a judge would preside, and both sides would have attorneys.”

“We don’t have much money, Ms. Ripper. I suppose the court would appoint an attorney to represent me.”

“If things get to that point, I might be able to help you.”

She says, “I chose you because of what happened to you when you were my age.”

I was two years younger, actually, but who’s counting?

She says, “And I’ve read about how you spent all these years trying to help other kids.”

I nod.

She pauses, then says, “I’m not gay.”

“Excuse me?”

“I just didn’t want there to be any misunderstandings. You know, about you helping me for free?”

I frown.

“I’m not gay,” I say.

“You’re not?”

One hour in the back of a limo last month, and the whole world’s talking about it? What’s going on here? Did someone stick a note on my forehead today?

Actually, I know how this whole “Dani’s gay” rumor got started.

I’m high profile.

I’m not bragging or anything, it’s just a statement of fact. I’m known as
The Little Girl Who Got Away
. The story of how I was abducted by a serial killer/rapist gripped the nation nine years ago. Sure, I changed my name, started a new life, but my identity became public just before Ben was murdered. As the wife, I became the prime suspect. It was a media circus. The world “found” me hiding out in Sophie’s house, here in Nashville. Sophie’s popular in her own right. She’s a well-known songwriter, and locally, a well-known country singer.

She’s also the niece of Salvatore Bonadello, who happens to be crime boss of the entire mid-western United States.

It’s quite common for young women to live together without being considered lesbians, but Sal has a huge extended family, and Sophie “came out” a few years back. Naturally, the word spread like wildfire that his niece, Sophie, had a new girlfriend.

Who happened to be famous.

Not that you’re asking, but Sophie and I did nothing sexual the first month we lived together. Of course, one might argue the main reason for that is my husband Ben had just been murdered.

It felt too soon for sex.

But later, like I said, we did it.

Once.

And I liked it.

But I’m still in-between deciding if this is what I really want. It’s not Sophie’s fault I haven’t worked it all out yet. She’s been great. My problem is the bastard who kidnapped me really screwed me up, psychologically.