"Last I knew she was in Arizona," I said. "And Brad was in New York doing some off-Broadway play."
"Off-off-off Broadway, you mean."
I quirked a smile. "Yeah."
"You're doing well, though. The lodge is getting bigger and fancier every time I'm there. You've got a dog. Got a friend." He nodded in the direction of the driveway.
I laughed. "He's not that kind of friend."
"But you were seeing someone, weren't you? Last time we spoke."
"Yep. Last time we spoke."
"Damn. I'm sorry."
I shrugged. "I'm fine. And you? Anyone special?"
"Working on it."
"Good." I cleared my throat. "As I said on the phone, I want to ask you a few things about Aldrich. About the case. His death is bringing it back and I just . . . I have some questions."
"About all the ways we monumentally fucked up?"
"Of course not." I met his gaze. "You know I wouldn't do that."
"Yeah, sorry. It still stings, obviously, and this vindication helps, but it's not enough." He reached for another cookie. "What do you want to know?"
"What happened to me."
His hand stopped. It was just a momentary pause before he picked up the cookie, but it was enough.
"You did know," I said.
He set the cookie, untouched, on his plate. Waiting to be sure we were talking about the same thing.
"I've had suspicions for a while," I said. "Bad dreams. Confusing memories. Then this news hit and I saw his face online and it . . . I remembered. Amy wasn't the only one Drew Aldrich raped."
Silence. Slowly, his gaze lifted to mine. "I'm sorry."
"Do you have something to be sorry for?"
"Yeah. We all do, don't we?" He rubbed his hand over his face. "It's so easy to screw up. To make a choice that seems right. Then time passes and you look back and you say, 'How the hell did I do that?' Attitudes change. Insights change. Eventually things that you were so damned sure were right become . . . incomprehensible."
"I know."
"I remember you coming into the station that day. I remember what it was like, seeing you staggering in, barely able to walk, the blood." He rubbed his mouth and shook his head. "It was like one of those nightmares. Where you're on a case, a terrible case, and you start dreaming that it wasn't a stranger who got hurt--it was someone you care about. Except this was real. Uncle Eddie had just come back from the station, panicked because you and Amy weren't on the train. Before anyone could even react to that, you came in screaming for your dad. He tried to take you into the back, but you wouldn't go. Amy was in trouble--we had to get to her. Your dad wanted to send everyone else. He'd
stay with you. You were hurt. You said you weren't, that it was Amy's blood and you only cut your throat getting away. You said no one touched you, that your dad had to go, he had to help Amy."
"I was blocking the rape."
He shook his head. "I don't think so. It was like . . . I had this call once. Years ago. Car accident. The wife was trapped inside, passed out. The car was on fire. The husband had been thrown clear--no seat belt. We tried to help him, but he kept saying he was fine. Save his wife. Wouldn't even let the paramedics check him. Everyone had to help his wife. We saved her. He died from internal injuries. You would have told us anything to convince us you were fine so we'd concentrate on Amy. Your dad still didn't want to leave, but you started screaming and fighting when he wouldn't. So he told me to stay with you and call Doc Foster."
"Which you did."
"The doc came and he took you into the back for an examination. When he came out, he confirmed . . . what we suspected . . . that Aldrich hurt you."
"Raped me."