“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.”
YOU ARE READING
Promise You Won't Tell?
Teen Fiction"I think something might have happened to me Saturday night. Something bad." Private Investigator Dani Ripper's client list is nuttier than the Looney Tunes conga line, but she diligently solves one crazy case after another, waiting for a game-chang...
