On The Run: Part Two

Chapter Twenty-Two - "Jellybeans And Macarons"

He nodded and patted my leg, “I know. You seem okay. But I’m right here, if you’re not.”

“I know.”

His hand was balanced on my bare leg – I don’t know why I was trying to be adventurous fashion-wise; a playsuit was far from the most comfortable outfit. Case in point: Trey’s hand and the ensuing tingles and goose bumps. It was uncomfortably comfortable.

I moved back across from him and settled across the seat on my back. He didn’t look fazed as he stared at me silently, as if he was trying to say something without actually saying it.

I simply let out a breath and said, “So, fill me in, Mr. Harrison. How’s work?”

He grinned – a slow, startling full-fledged grin that for a second took me aback. Right then, I think I saw it. Whatever it was that Kayla saw. What Samantha saw. What all those girls saw. What everyone saw. Trey.

What was I supposed to do with that?

*

Minus twenty-four minutes.

Sarah was sitting next to me, looking anywhere but at Jake, who was doing the exact same thing. He turned on the tape recorder.

“Chloe, I’m going to record this, okay? It needs to be on the record to help with an arrest and a subsequent conviction,” he said.

I nodded, and looked nervously at Sarah.

He continued, “So, what did Robert Epps, your foster father, do to you, Chloe?”

I sighed and swallowed, pushing the images that were threatening to pop out, right back to the back of my mind. I’d rehearsed it, and yet here I was, speechless. Just like I had been when Sarah had asked.

She looked at me, and I put all my effort into staring at the tape recorder. Jake looked back and forth between us and then turned to Sarah, “Hey Sarah, could you please get her a bottle of water or something? It might help with the nerves.”

She looked surprised at the direct address, but simply stood up and headed for the door.

“The one downstairs, please. They have refrigerated ones there.”

She frowned curious, but stepped out and shut the door gently behind her.

Jake turned to me the minute the door shut and said, “Okay. She’s gone. Now, talk.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but instead, came out with, “She’ll blame herself.”

“And you don’t want that.”

I shook my head, “No. No, I don’t.”

“So, tell me.”

I let out a sigh. Where do you even begin on a tale that comprises of nothing but tears, blood and a whole load of gathered hate?

“He hit me. On occasion,” I said, trying to be as cavalier as possible, as I focused on the glass window, as opposed to his questioning eyes.

He sighed, “Chloe. The only way that this works is if you tell me exactly, in detail what he did to you, and when. I know it’s hard, but—”

“I can’t.”

His shoulders slumped.

“I can’t, not because it’s hard – not that it isn’t – or because I can’t remember. There’s just . . . there isn’t enough time.”