After a few confused, terrifying moments and several impatient “Hellos” from Logan, I finally find my voice—the stammering voice that is my alter ego of humiliation. “Uhhhhh … L-Logan? I-Is S-Sara home?”

“No, she’s away at the lake house. She forgot her phone… Wait, Rowan…? What’s wrong? You sound like you’re crying. What happened?”

Shit! That isn’t stammering, it’s sobbing. This is not good. Regroup. Deep breath. Change of subject. “What are you doing answering Sara’s phone?” Good, that will throw him off.

“I asked you why you’re crying. What the hell is going on, Rowan?”

Okay, redirection didn’t work. We’ll just go with a lie instead. “I’m not crying. I’ve just been riding my bike.” This can’t get any worse. Not only am I trying to lie, I’m coming up with really stupid lies.

“Bullshit. Rowan, why the hell are you calling Sara from a payphone in the middle of the night in tears?”

Caller ID. Oops. What do all smart people do when they are caught in a lie? They keep lying. Adamant rebuttal is fool proof. “Logan, really, I’ve just been riding my bicycle… I forgot something at work and needed … uh … to talk to Sara… I… Why is she at the lake house this weekend? I thought … you know … uh … comp report… I mean, it’s due Monday, and she was supposed to be home…”

“Okay, that’s it. Where are you? I’m coming to get you. And don’t even think of saying you’re fine, and don’t even think of telling me you’re not crying. Just tell me where the hell you’re at before I call the cops.”

Well, that just didn’t work at all. I think about hanging up, but the sound in Logan’s voice is paralyzing. He is angry, not to mention confused. For all he knows something bad has happened to me, and well, he wouldn’t be all that wrong. If Logan wanted to, I have no doubt he could have the cops out looking for me. It’s a small town, and he is well known and respected. The last thing I want is the cops to be pounding on the door to the trailer where my drunken father is likely trying to pass out to some obscure early morning infomercial. That could be really bad.

“Logan? I need help.” It’s barely a whisper.

I don’t recall ever saying those words to anyone in my life, especially in connection to my father’s drunken behavior. Strangely, I immediately feel an odd sense of relief. I know there’s nothing Logan can really do for me, but just saying the words out loud in some way is liberating. I’m tired. Secrets are draining, and this one’s a doozy. And with this confession, a sense of the inevitable starts to slowly sink in.

“Can you please pick me up at the Amoco at Vine and Eighth Street?” I don’t wait for a response. I hang up.

No one until now has known what life is like in the Rowan Avery household. But in a short time, someone will. I better just hope I’m prepared for the fall out.

Chapter 3

She better have a damn good explanation. She must think I’m the world’s biggest idiot. Riding bicycles in the middle of the night. What is she, five? Please. This is the thanks I get for dog-sitting—should have just taken the stupid dog with them like they usually do. But no, dog has an ear infection, and everyone knows dogs with ear infections can’t possibly go to lake houses. Never mind the fact that Rufus doesn’t exactly enjoy having his ears messed with. Rufus becomes Cujo real fast. And if that isn’t enough, my bedroom’s been turned into a damn hobby room. Who the hell is going to be using this hobby room? Not that I don’t love sleeping on the couch in the den. It is better than Sara’s room, clothes always strewn about and constantly oversaturated with the latest perfume all girls her age seem to bathe in. And now it’s two thirty in the morning, and her phone starts ringing.

Her leg better have fallen off while she was riding that damn bike. She better need a tourniquet. Shut up, Logan, the decent part of my brain is saying. You’re just tired and crabby. You like Rowan, and if she was crying, then something must be wrong. She takes a lot in stride with no complaints. Stop obsessing. But the dickhead part of me is floored.

Why tonight? I have to be at the office early tomorrow to help with discovery on the Gleason case, and now this. Gee, sorry guys. You don’t mind if I just curl up on the DA’s desk for a quick snooze, do you? She better be bleeding… Wait, she is bleeding.

My headlights sweep the parking lot of the Amoco and find her sitting against the wall of the station with her knees pulled to her chest, and as she looks up and meets my eyes, it's clear she really is hurt.

She’s barefoot and wearing only pajama pants and a tank top. She looks tiny. She is tiny, but she looks even smaller than her normal petite self. It is the end of a long warm summer, and while the weather’s been nice, the nights are chilly and tank tops and bare feet are no longer appropriate.

She’s bleeding from the corner of her mouth. I’ve seen enough domestic violence cases to know a good back hand across the face will leave telltale signs. If I didn’t know her better, I’d say a jealous, violent boyfriend had done this work. And then it occurs to me, perhaps a nasty, drunk father.

It’s no secret Rowan’s father is a drunk asshole. The few times I’ve crossed his path while picking Rowan up for one thing or another, I’ve gotten the distinct impression there is little in this world he cares about and that includes Rowan. Never mind the number of times he’s been brought up on charges of disorderly conduct, or public intox, even an assault charge after one of the many bar room brawls he’d been involved in.

But surely he didn’t do this to her. People would know, wouldn’t they? There would be speculation and rumor, wouldn’t there? But there had been years ago. He had even been investigated by Social Services at one time. Nothing had ever come of it, and the issue just seemed to disappear. Even Sara couldn’t get her to admit he’d done anything wrong. But Sara would surely know if something was going on even if Rowan denied it, wouldn’t she?

I park up along the side of the building, and as I approach Rowan, she lowers her head and begins to quietly cry. The look on her face isn’t pain alone—it’s humiliation and depression. I squat down beside her and touch her cheek, too close to her mouth, and she inadvertently flinches. I just stay there, looking at her as she cries, wanting to help but not sure where to begin.

“Row, look at me.” She raises her head but can’t quite bring herself to look me in the eye for longer than a second or two at a time. I have to know, and I ask. “Did your father do this?” She just gives a slight nod.

I look at her for a moment longer before I have to lower my head to disguise the fury that is boiling up. I’ve known Rowan since she was a child—hell, since I was a child. How could I have not known this? I see things like this all the time. Abusive parents don’t decide on the spur of the moment to become violent. He’s always been violent, which means she’s always been abused. My fury is as much for myself as it is him. I have to consciously force myself to focus on her and not on my building anger as it threatens to take over me. But one look at her face and I am snapped back to this place—my fury put away in exchange for concern.

I take off my fleece pullover and help her put it on. She’s shivering and so miserable that it is hard to just look at her. “Let’s go.” I’m not sure where to take her but want more than anything to get her away from this dirty old station with its oil-stained concrete and permanent petrol stench.

As I load her bike and backpack into the back of my Cherokee, she hobbles shoeless across the asphalt and in obvious pain to the passenger door. I decide to call my parents. But as I search the front console for my phone, I realize that I’ve left it charging in the kitchen at their house. Shit. I have no choice then but to take her straight to the hospital and call my parents from there.

Rowan looks at me, and in the meekest voice pleads, “Please don’t tell anyone.”

She can’t be serious! I give her a stupefied look, and her face instantly drops as the realization of my intentions registers in her mind. I start to question what would possibly make her want to keep this quiet when she interrupts, asking that I let her out. Had the hit to the face broken her brain? I’m not letting her out! She’s hurt and needs to see a doctor. I know she’s been physically abused and assaulted, but what if there’s more? The idea of that disgusting man laying his hands on her body is a sick, evil thought lurking in the back of my mind.

To my shock and horror, she begins to open the door of my moving car. What the hell is she thinking? Now I know the knock to her head has loosened some screws. I pull screeching to a stop in the middle of the deserted and quiet residential street just in time to see her manage the door open and take off barefoot down the street. I throw the car in park and go after her.

She doesn’t make it far; the hard, uneven, pebbly road makes running difficult on her already painful feet. I catch her around the waist and hold her until she stops fighting. She calms as I hold her with her back to me. She gives up, exhausted, and resorts to quietly pleading with me to just let her go.

“I can’t do that. You know I can’t. You’re hurt and need to see a doctor. We have to call the police.”

I turn her around to face me, and before I can say a word, her head collapses to my chest, and she buries her face there, sobbing quiet tears. I hold her for a long time not wanting to let her go.

She finally asks, “Can we just go home? I promise I will give you an explanation, but please don’t call the police. Not until you’ve given me a chance to explain.”