Looking down at her, I feel completely useless. Helpless.
I can't even be mad that she's reacting like this after what has happened to her. How could anyone be expected to act rationally in this situation?
When she starts crying into her hands, my heart cracks wide open. I can't stand to see her crying and so distraught. Out of instinct, I go to reach for her again, but a voice behind me stops me in my tracks.
“Step away from the girl, and put your hands where I can see them.”
I whip around to see a few police officers and paramedics who are walking toward Jennifer with a bag.
“You don't understand. I was trying–” The sight of a gun makes me stop talking.
“Put your hands up!”
I quickly lift my hands above my head. I'm sure this must look bad. A quick glance down shows my shirt ripped in one part. I also have scratches on my arms and on my cheek. And shit, I scratched her leg. My DNA will be all over her, even on her lips. Shit.
I'm probably screwed. A cool chill licks at my skin at the thought of what might happen to me.
No. No, I can't be charged for this. I'm innocent. All will be okay. I'll be okay. I'm innocent. I'll be okay.
I repeat the words over and over in my head.
As one officer begins to put cuffs on me and reads me my Miranda Rights, I watch as another one reaches down to pick something up off the ground with gloves.
“This yours?” he asks, putting it into a baggie.
When I see what it is, my stomach twists even further. It's the condom Mase gave to me. It must have fallen out of my pocket when I pulled my phone out.
That doesn't look very good for me. Still, it's not used, so that should work in my favor, right? They can't use it against me, can they?
As I'm led away in a kind of shocked state, I turn my head to look over at Jennifer who is with the paramedics.
With a look, I try to convey to her that it wasn't me, that I was just trying to help her, that I've cared about her more than she knows for years now.
Doesn't she know that I would never do anything like that to her, or anyone?
Doesn't she know that just the thought of it makes me sick?
If the look in her eyes while she tightens the blanket closer to her body, is any indication, she doesn't know any of that at all, and it fucking hurts.
“I think he drugged me as well,” she continues talking to the paramedics while staring directly at me.
“It's okay,” I whisper to myself. “I'm going to be okay.”
She'll remember that it wasn't me, they'll find other evidence on her that proves me innocent, and I'll be let go by the morning.
They'll know it wasn't me.
They have to.
CHAPTER 1
Remi -Present DAY
Back and forth. Back and forth. I rub my thumb over the tips of my fingers, over and over, ending on an even number. It doesn't matter how many times I slide across them, just as long as it's the even number that I end on.
That's about the extent of my OCD. Which is to say, I don'thave OCD. It's just a habit I developed in uncertain, exciting, or nervous times throughout the years.
This situation, I guess, would fall into all three of those categories.