Her leg better have fallen off while she was riding that damn bike. She better need a tourniquet. Shut up, Logan, the decent part of my brain is saying. You’re just tired and crabby. You like Rowan, and if she was crying, then something must be wrong. She takes a lot in stride with no complaints. Stop obsessing. But the dickhead part of me is floored.
Why tonight? I have to be at the office early tomorrow to help with discovery on the Gleason case, and now this. Gee, sorry guys. You don’t mind if I just curl up on the DA’s desk for a quick snooze, do you? She better be bleeding… Wait, she is bleeding.
My headlights sweep the parking lot of the Amoco and find her sitting against the wall of the station with her knees pulled to her chest, and as she looks up and meets my eyes, it's clear she really is hurt.
She’s barefoot and wearing only pajama pants and a tank top. She looks tiny. She is tiny, but she looks even smaller than her normal petite self. It is the end of a long warm summer, and while the weather’s been nice, the nights are chilly and tank tops and bare feet are no longer appropriate.
She’s bleeding from the corner of her mouth. I’ve seen enough domestic violence cases to know a good back hand across the face will leave telltale signs. If I didn’t know her better, I’d say a jealous, violent boyfriend had done this work. And then it occurs to me, perhaps a nasty, drunk father.
It’s no secret Rowan’s father is a drunk asshole. The few times I’ve crossed his path while picking Rowan up for one thing or another, I’ve gotten the distinct impression there is little in this world he cares about and that includes Rowan. Never mind the number of times he’s been brought up on charges of disorderly conduct, or public intox, even an assault charge after one of the many bar room brawls he’d been involved in.
But surely he didn’t do this to her. People would know, wouldn’t they? There would be speculation and rumor, wouldn’t there? But there had been years ago. He had even been investigated by Social Services at one time. Nothing had ever come of it, and the issue just seemed to disappear. Even Sara couldn’t get her to admit he’d done anything wrong. But Sara would surely know if something was going on even if Rowan denied it, wouldn’t she?
I park up along the side of the building, and as I approach Rowan, she lowers her head and begins to quietly cry. The look on her face isn’t pain alone—it’s humiliation and depression. I squat down beside her and touch her cheek, too close to her mouth, and she inadvertently flinches. I just stay there, looking at her as she cries, wanting to help but not sure where to begin.
“Row, look at me.” She raises her head but can’t quite bring herself to look me in the eye for longer than a second or two at a time. I have to know, and I ask. “Did your father do this?” She just gives a slight nod.
I look at her for a moment longer before I have to lower my head to disguise the fury that is boiling up. I’ve known Rowan since she was a child—hell, since I was a child. How could I have not known this? I see things like this all the time. Abusive parents don’t decide on the spur of the moment to become violent. He’s always been violent, which means she’s always been abused. My fury is as much for myself as it is him. I have to consciously force myself to focus on her and not on my building anger as it threatens to take over me. But one look at her face and I am snapped back to this place—my fury put away in exchange for concern.
I take off my fleece pullover and help her put it on. She’s shivering and so miserable that it is hard to just look at her. “Let’s go.” I’m not sure where to take her but want more than anything to get her away from this dirty old station with its oil-stained concrete and permanent petrol stench.
As I load her bike and backpack into the back of my Cherokee, she hobbles shoeless across the asphalt and in obvious pain to the passenger door. I decide to call my parents. But as I search the front console for my phone, I realize that I’ve left it charging in the kitchen at their house. Shit. I have no choice then but to take her straight to the hospital and call my parents from there.
Rowan looks at me, and in the meekest voice pleads, “Please don’t tell anyone.”
She can’t be serious! I give her a stupefied look, and her face instantly drops as the realization of my intentions registers in her mind. I start to question what would possibly make her want to keep this quiet when she interrupts, asking that I let her out. Had the hit to the face broken her brain? I’m not letting her out! She’s hurt and needs to see a doctor. I know she’s been physically abused and assaulted, but what if there’s more? The idea of that disgusting man laying his hands on her body is a sick, evil thought lurking in the back of my mind.
To my shock and horror, she begins to open the door of my moving car. What the hell is she thinking? Now I know the knock to her head has loosened some screws. I pull screeching to a stop in the middle of the deserted and quiet residential street just in time to see her manage the door open and take off barefoot down the street. I throw the car in park and go after her.
She doesn’t make it far; the hard, uneven, pebbly road makes running difficult on her already painful feet. I catch her around the waist and hold her until she stops fighting. She calms as I hold her with her back to me. She gives up, exhausted, and resorts to quietly pleading with me to just let her go.
“I can’t do that. You know I can’t. You’re hurt and need to see a doctor. We have to call the police.”
I turn her around to face me, and before I can say a word, her head collapses to my chest, and she buries her face there, sobbing quiet tears. I hold her for a long time not wanting to let her go.
She finally asks, “Can we just go home? I promise I will give you an explanation, but please don’t call the police. Not until you’ve given me a chance to explain.”
“Row, you’re hurt. He hit you and God knows what else. You need to see a doctor.”
“I won’t talk to the police. I’m sorry, but I won’t. I’m fine. I promise it’s not as bad as it looks. I swear. Please, just give me a chance to explain.” She’s begging, pleading, and quite frankly, telling me exactly what she is and is not willing to do, and as I stare at her while standing there in the street, I make my decision. Most would say the wrong one.
We are silent the short ride back to his parent’s house. I know I’ve asked him to go against everything his logical mind is telling him to do, and I hate myself for that. I stare blankly out the window, trying desperately to concentrate long enough to figure out a way to fix this mess, but I am exhausted. His fleece pullover is warm and soft against my skin. It carries the amazing scent of his body, and all I want to do is drift away in the warmth of him.
When we pull up in his parents’ driveway, he silently helps me from the car and leads me upstairs to the bathroom. He then helps me onto the counter, and with a warm washcloth gently and carefully cleans my face, studying and appraising every inch of my skin. He’s surprisingly gentle for a man, or perhaps my experiences with my father have tainted my opinion of men in general. It is quite an emotional experience realizing how genuinely kind and compassionate a man can be. He takes his time, intent on sparing me any more pain, and as unexpected as his presence is on this night, I’m so thankful to have him here.
My mouth has stopped bleeding but is sore as hell. I feel numb everywhere else; even my brain seems to be running on autopilot, and I don’t remember ever feeling so tired. I thoughtlessly run my tongue to the corner of my mouth as he brushes his thumb over the same tender spot. I can’t help but pass an embarrassed glance at him before looking away again. He just looks at me steadily, his face belying nothing of the unease I feel having just touched him with my tongue.