Joy (28 page)
The sheets felt cool as he slid under the blanket. He pulled the cover over his body, and took deep breaths meant to calm. But his shivering quickened.
He never planned to hit her, but when she started talking to God… He had told her to be quiet. But she kept praying. She prayed until he'd beaten her into silence.
He had only done that once before—the time he'd nearly been caught in New York. It had been the first time he returned to the game. In his excitement, he'd beaten the woman. That had cost him and he'd had to leave the city. He had promised himself that he'd never do that again.
He took a deep breath. There was no need to worry. He'd been so careful, this was so perfectly planned. There was nothing to link him to what had happened.
The sparkle of the ring came into his view and he picked it up from the nightstand. That was never part of his plan. It wasn't like he needed it for money. But when he noticed it, he knew taking it would be the final degradation. He hadn't decided yet what to do with it. Maybe he'd give it back. Tell her he found it, then become the hero. He shook his head. He'd have to think about that.
At least he had taught her who was really in control. She wouldn't be bouncing around anymore like she was the only one in charge. He couldn't wait until the next time he saw her. That smirk of arrogance would be totally gone, and though he could tell no one, everyone would have him to thank for it.
D
avid held his fingers to his temples as he listened to the murmurs in the hallway. Even though the meeting had ended almost thirty minutes before, the associates were still hovering and sharing their disbelief.
It had been tougher than he thought to tell everyone about the attack on Anya. As he spoke, images of her swept through his mind—the same ones that had kept him up all night.
At least his prayers had been answered. Sasha told him this morning that Anya was going to be fine. He wished he could see her with his own eyes, but for now, all he could do was run the business for her. And it was time to get the team back to work
He stood, and just as he was about to move into the hall, a man knocked on his door. This one is smiling, David thought, as he remembered the officer from last night.
“I'm Detective Bush.” The man held out his hand. “I've been assigned to the Anya Mitchell case.”
David nodded, but stood silently.
“I understand that you're in charge.” Even though David was standing, the detective sat in a chair in front of the desk
David followed the detective's lead. “Yes, I'll be running the office.”
Detective Bush smiled. “I wanted to go over some things with you. We're finished with Ms. Mitchell's office, but I need to arrange a way to talk to the people who work here.”
David frowned. “You don't think it was anyone here, do you?”
The detective waited a beat, and peered at David with hard eyes. “We don't rule
anyone
out.” He paused, letting his words hang in the air. “But,” he said, softening his tone, “I want to do some preliminary interviews. You never know what information people may be holding.”
David swallowed, trying to dislodge the lump in his throat.
The detective stood. “I'll give you a call this afternoon after we put together a plan. Is that okay?”
David nodded again, and silently walked the detective to the door.
“By the way”— Detective Bush stopped suddenly — “I understand you found Ms. Mitchell.”
“Yes,” David breathed.
“When you came back to the office last night was the door locked?”
David blinked, trying to remember. “Yes, I think so.”
The detective stared at him for a moment, then walked away.
David returned to his office and closed the door. Sitting at his desk, his trembling fingers flipped through his Rolodex. He dialed the number, and was surprised when he was directly connected.
“This is David Montgomery.”
He exchanged pleasantries before he got to the reason for his call. “I need some help.” He paused, taking a breath. “ I’ may need you to tell the police that I was with you last night. Would you be able to do that for me?”
Braxton zipped the small weekend bag and darted for the door, when the telephone rang.
He had barely picked up the receiver when Carlos's voice boomed through.
“Man, I heard what happened—”
Braxton's jaw tightened. “How did you find out?”
“You know Cia, William's wife. She works at the police station and saw some paperwork. I couldn't believe it. How's Anya?”
“As well as you'd expect.”
“Does she know who … Have they arrested anyone?”
Braxton slumped onto his bed. “No.”
“Man, if there is anything we can do. We were over here talking and couldn't decide if we should get together and try to find this bum or just get on our knees.”
Braxton closed his eyes, hoping that when he opened them, this would all be over. “I was on my way back to Anya—”
“Okay, I won't hold you. One thing, do you want me to cancel your meeting with Benjamin this afternoon?”
Braxton opened his eyes. He'd forgotten. But he had to move forward with the custody suit. He paused for only a moment. “Cancel the meeting. I'll call you tomorrow.”
Braxton didn't even say good-bye. He dropped the phone into the cradle and while he sat with his head in his hands, the face appeared in his mind. The face without color or features or shape. The face that had taken his woman in the way that she had been preserving, saving, only for him. In his mind, he aimed for the face, and with one shot, the image would disappear forever.
Suddenly, he stood and ran into his bathroom. He spent five minutes over the toilet releasing his anguish. When he returned to his bedroom, he once again picked up the phone. His breathing was heavy as he waited to be connected.
“Hello, Detective Bush. My name is Braxton Vance and I understand you're working on the case for Anya Mitchell—she was… attacked last night.” He paused. “I need to see you right away.”
This was the first time Braxton had ever been inside a police station, and as he waited, he knew why. Uniformed officers with weapons casually strolled the brightly lit halls and, occasionally, he heard laughter from the enclosed offices. But he shared none of their cheer. He was only here to speak about Anya's case, yet Braxton shifted with nervousness. Strange, he thought. Must be a Black man's thing.
“Mr. Vance, I'm Detective Bush.” The red-faced detective reached out his hand and smiled.
The gesture didn't make Braxton feel any better. He nodded and followed the detective into a small office made tinier by the stacks of paper piled high on the desk
“Thank you for taking the time to see me.” Braxton sat in one of the metal chairs and crossed his legs.
The detective pulled a file from the top of one of the piles. “No problem,” he responded, as he made a note, then peered at Braxton over his glasses. “I'm glad you called. I wanted to speak with you anyway.”
Braxton folded his arms across his chest and waited for the detective to continue.
“I want to get a statement from Ms. Mitchell when she's up to it.”
Braxton exhaled. “Of course. The reason I'm here is I wanted to know how this is going to work. How are you going to find the man who did this?”
The detective leaned back. “It's a process,” Detective Bush explained patiently. “One thing we know is that in most rapes, the victim knows her attacker.” He paused.
Braxton twisted in his seat.
“So we're going to speak to a lot of people.”
Braxton coughed. “What about fingerprints?”
The detective frowned at the question, then looked down at the papers in front of him. “According to Ms. Mitchell, the man was gloved. But even if he wasn't, it wouldn't do much good. There are a lot of fingerprints in that office.” The detective looked up. “Even yours, I'm sure.”
Braxton stood. “Thank you for seeing me, Detective.” He moved quickly toward the door.
“Mr. Vance?”
Braxton turned around.
“Where can I reach you if I need any more information?”
Braxton stared at the detective for a long moment. “I'll be staying with Ms. Mitchell.”
The detective nodded and Braxton didn't breathe until he was in his car. It wasn't until then that he realized he hadn't told the detective about Anya's ring.
Too bad, he thought. I'm not going back in there. I'll call him.
As he pulled out of the parking lot, he sighed. Nothing about this was going to be easy.
D
arkness completely blanketed the room and Anya was sure that not even the moon shined tonight. She rolled over, and grimaced as a spark of pain shot through her. The red numerals on the clock screamed 3:17 and not one hour of sleep had relieved her.
She could hear Braxton's soft snore over her shoulder. He had insisted on staying and she hadn't tried to stop him. Dr. Young said that not only did she have to recover but everyone who loved her, especially Braxton, would have some healing to do too.
So at dinner, when Braxton had announced his plans to stay, Anya didn't protest. Especially not when all of them—Sasha, Madear, and Donovan—had insisted that it was a good idea. Madear and Donovan had left early, saying that she needed rest. But hours later, she still hadn't had one hour of sleep.
“Hold on, Anya,” she whispered. “God is good and He is faithful.” She repeated that thought over and over in her head.
But even through those words, she could see the silver glitter of the blade pressed against her throat. And then she felt him. All over her.
She eased from the bed and walked softly to her bathroom. The faucet squeaked when she turned on the water, and within moments, there was a light tap on the door.
“I'm okay, Braxton,” she said, through the closed door. “I just want to take a shower.”
“Another one?”
She opened the door. “I thought it might help me sleep.” She smiled to reassure him.
Creases of doubt wrinkled his face and she squeezed his hand. “I won't be long. Would you wait up for me?” she asked, already knowing that he would.
They hugged, then he left her alone. As she turned, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, but instantly looked away. Swiftly, she tossed the XXL Hampton University T-shirt over her head, then stepped under the shower's tepid water. After a few minutes, she turned the hot knob, raising the temperature until her skin screamed. She stood under the spigot, keeping her face away from the rushing water, and closed her eyes. Her prayer was that somehow the water would cleanse her insides too.
“God is good and He is faithful.”
It wasn't until she heard the tap on the door that she knew she had been in there too long. The fogged mirror hid her image, but she still turned away, while she dabbed at her body with the towel. Her fingertips had crinkled like an elderly woman's, and the bandage on her face was wet. But she was clean.
“God is good and He is faithful.”
Braxton, dressed in a gray sweatsuit, was pacing the floor when she entered the bedroom.
“I'm fine,” she said, running her hand along his anxious face. The spiky hairs of a new beard tickled her palm. He hadn't even taken the time to shave. Everything had become secondary to taking care of her. She smiled. “Let's go to bed.”
He took her hand, but before she lay down, she picked up her Bible, then leaned back into his arms, sinking into his warmth.
Silently she said, “Speak to my heart, Lord.” Then she opened the book. It fell to the Book of Psalms, and with Braxton's arms still around her, she slowly skimmed the scriptures until she got to Psalm 4, eighth verse. She smiled. She read the verse again and again.
I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep: for thou, Lord, only make me dwell in safety.
“Braxton,” she said finally. “Turn off the light, please. I'm ready to go to sleep.”
Anya's eyelids fluttered. The bedroom was dark, and through the stillness, she felt Braxton next to her. She lay still, trying to remember what visions had invaded her dreams. But there was nothing to remember. God had promised her peace.
As she turned over, the gauze on her cheek rubbed against the pillow. She brushed her hand against the rough fabric. Yesterday afternoon, Braxton had changed the dressing for her. She had searched his face for a reaction—a grimace or something that would give her some indication of what the scar looked like. But he had been unreadable. Since then, she'd been adept at avoiding anything that would give her a reflection of her image. But now, she needed to see.
Gently she removed Braxton's arm from around her waist. He stirred in his sleep, but did not awaken. As she'd done a few hours before, she rose from the bed and tiptoed to the bathroom. She hoped this time Braxton would remain asleep.
The brightness of the fluorescent lights made her squint and it took a few moments for her eyes to adjust. But soon, she was able to stare at her reflection in the mirror.
There seemed to be nothing wrong with the woman who stared back—just slight swelling and scratches under her left eye. The bandage that covered most of the side of her face was really the only sign.
She took a deep breath before she lifted her hand and gently peeled back the tip of the gauze, pulling slowly until her entire face was exposed. A red-purple welt began under her eye and ended at the corner of her mouth. Her fingers traced the line. The doctors had asked her about the laceration, but she couldn't remember.
She closed her eyes, trying to bring back the memory, but all she saw was the glimmer of the blade.
She snapped opened her eyes. There was no need to return to the place she was trying so hard to escape.
She gently patted the bandage back in place. Then she returned to the bed as silently as she left it. It was 5:47. In less than an hour, sunlight would be seeping through the window—her signal to rise for work.
She closed her eyes. Everything inside told her to return to work when her scars had faded a bit more. Return when she was stronger. That's what she would do. Wait to regain all of her strength. In every way that she knew.
