But I can’t.
The fact is, even though I found her the way I did, and have spent hours on pins and needles waiting to hear that she’s okay, Blair doesn’t have the first fucking clue who I am. She doesn’t know me. And with all the shit going on in my life, she doesn’t want to know me. But I will find that fucker, and I will make him pay.
“Thank you,” Judge says, breaking the awkward silence while I work out my thoughts. “Glad to hear the girl’s gonna be fine.”
The doctor’s phone pings. Glancing at the screen, he nods and excuses himself, already off to deal with another patient. From our place in the lobby, we watch a group of uniformed officers, and a couple of detectives we all know far too well, walk toward Blair’s room.
“What now?” Karma asks from behind me. “You gonna go back and claim the girl? Maybe see what it’s like to bang a redhead in a hospital bed?”
Judge chuckles, but I don’t find his shit joke funny at all. “No, asshole. We’re gonna leave that girl to live her life in peace, but we’re going to hunt this guy down. When we find him, he’s going to pray to God he never darkened her doorstep. And we do it all before those fucking cops see us.”
As I speak, Karma’s teasing smile fades, and the seriousness of the situation fills the room once again. “Damn right,” he mutters.
I grab Walter’s leash, and with one last glance back at the corridor to Blair’s room, we clear out, our mission the only thing I can concern myself with right now.
Blair
Apparently, signing myself out of the hospital against medical advice was never really an option. Not with the police barring me, not only from leaving the hospital, but from going home. My house is now an active crime scene, and until it’s released from said status, my ass isn’t going anywhere. Or so the balding, overweight detective currently taking up residence in the chair across from my bed tells me. We’ll see about that. He has to go home sometime, and maybe the next officer on duty will be more sympathetic to my plight. A girl can hope, anyway.
You’d think having been attacked less than a day before would spare me from a constant barrage of questions. Between the medical staff, the police, and the reporters—who I’ve been told are camping in the parking lot in an attempt to get access to me—I’m at my wit’s end. I need to rest, but that’s not even in the realm of possibilities—or so it seems right now, with Detective Douchebag’s line of questioning.
“Miss Thompson,” the detective prompts. “Let’s go over what you told me again.”
“Blair. My name is Blair. Please use it,” I interject coarsely. “What more is there to tell? It’s not like you asking me the same questions over and over again is going to magically jog my memory.”
Believe me, the possibility of me remembering much of anything is slim, outside years of therapy to unpack the trauma. I’ve studied cases like mine in my undergraduate classes. Some victims never remember, some do. The human brain is a minefield of complexities, and we’ve only begun scratching the surface when it comes to cognitive memory loss and the correlation of trauma-induced amnesia. But the detective seems hell-bent on proving both me and science wrong.
“Blair,” he grumbles, correcting himself. “Can you describe your attacker?”
This again. This has to be the sixth or seventh time he’s asked me that question since he walked in only an hour after I’d fully woken up. I didn’t even get a chance to eat the now cold broth the nurse had been so kind to order for me. My hunger and well-being clearly comes second to this man.
“Detective, I’ve told you already. There was a guy standing there, wearing a ski mask and holding a knife. He attacked, everything went black, I woke up here, and that’s it.”
He frowns, his disapproval spreading across his white, bearded face.
“I wish I could tell you more, but the entire thing is a blur in my head.”
He grunts.
“You can grunt all you want, but it’s not going to clear up the static in my head. I doubt even an aluminum foil wrapped bunny ear antenna could fix it. There’s nothing there,” I conclude.
He scowls then, rubbing his face in frustration. “Did you do anything to incite the man to attack?”
“Excuse me?”
“Many young college women these days bring unwanted attention upon themselves with the way they dress and act. It’s not unheard of to attract the wrong kind of male attention.”
“Are you kidding me right now?” I snap. “I was attacked in my own home, and you’re victim blaming me like I’m some slut begging for it on the street?” Is he really insinuating I brought this on myself? That I flaunted myself at this man?
“Miss Thompson, you told me yourself you’ve posted fliers all around campus, looking to fill a vacancy in your home, and that you’ve invited numerous people to view it. You advertised your vulnerability for the entire world to see.”
His words are like a punch in the gut. “You’re a real piece of work. I’m an educated woman, Detective. Advertising for a roommate is not an open invitation for someone to invade my home and attack me.”
He glares over at me. “From what I can tell, regarding the company you keep—if the man who called 911 is any indication—drawing that type of conclusion isn’t far from the mark.”
Here we go again. Why is everyone so interested in this guy? First, the nurse, and now the detective. It’s a little difficult to talk about someone I’ve never met, or even seen.
“My answer hasn’t changed from the last time you asked. I don’t know him.” I shrug. “He falls into that black area I just mentioned. I didn’t even know anyone else was there.” I point to my head, hoping it reminds him I’d taken a blow to it. This guy’s a textbook ego-tripper. It almost makes me want to switch roles and pick his brain. Almost. I’m not sure I would want to poke around in there with his line of work. “I really want to help you, but there’s only so much information I can offer.”
“I see.” Cool disbelief drips from his words. “It’s just interesting to me that a complete stranger rushes into your house and saves your life, especially someone like this guy. He’s not the kind of man that, as you said yourself, an ‘educated woman’ should associate themselves with.”
It’s odd, but I suddenly feel protective of my savior. “I’m not sure how to take that. How is a good Samaritan interesting? I owe everything to that man. Frankly, I think you should be thanking him instead of implying how ‘interesting’ it was he was there.”
Unbelievable. This wasn’t some kind of domestic dispute gone wrong. I was attacked in my own home, my life nearly taken. None it was convenient for me—not one bit. And what is it about this man who’s tripped the trigger for this detective? To be honest, the more he talks about him, the more I want to know. To get such ire after such a brave act is so odd. I just wish I’d gotten a chance to thank him.
“If you knew who he was, I doubt you’d be saying that, Miss Thompson. Men like him don’t just save a woman’s life without a purpose or a reason. I think you know more than you’re telling me.”