I wasn’t a piece of land or livestock.
They could take their power and shove it up their asses.
Bethany had a victory smile already plastered on her overly botoxed face. It was time to rip it the fuck off.
“I don’t think you quite understand something, Mrs. Fletcher.” I mimicked her posture, leaning and pressing myself as close to her as my cuffed hands would let me. “The last thing you want to do is fuck with someone who has nothing to lose. I want your entire family to leave me alone, and I want Owen to stay at least one hundred yards away from me at all times. I mean it. If he sees me on one side of the street, he needs to cross to the other.”
“This isn’t a negotiation. I’ve laid out your options so you pick. Jail or signature. End of story.” She placed the papers back into her briefcase and clicked the locks shut. She stood. “What will it be, Miss Ford?”
“Fuck you.”
She shrugged and turned to leave, but before she could twist the knob on the door, she turned and looked at me. “Enjoy jail, Abby. It’s always nice when a daughter follows in her parents’ footsteps.”
Bitch.
I had to pull out the only card I had left to play.
“Hey, Bethany.” She glanced at me over her shoulder. “Did you know that photography was a hobby of mine?”
She froze and turned all the way back around. Her face had gone pale.
I felt a tickle on my nose and bent over to scratch it on the table. “I’m more of a documentary kind-of photographer, really. I like to tell a story with my pictures, you know? It’s amazing what the camera picks up when you’re naked in the mirror. Even in black and white photos, you can see where the purple of each bruise looks gray, where the dried blood looks almost black. You can almost see the yellow tone in the swelling of a black eye… or two.”
She crossed the small room in two strides leaned over the table, bracing both arms on it for support. “All that proves is that someone hurt you. It doesn’t prove who did it.”
“I have copies of the pictures and my statement of what happened that night in three different locations. If something were to happen to me, if Owen does this to someone else, or if you don’t follow through with my demands, there is a plan in place to send them to every newspaper and media outlet within a hundred miles. I won’t be the one rotting away in a jail cell. Owen will be. I’m guessing shortly after that, I won’t be the only rape victim in this whole situation, either.”
I was bluffing about everything but the photos.
She tried to stifle her gasp. She shifted her grip on the table before making her decision.
“Owen leaves you alone, and the charges against you are dropped. Is that what you want?”
“Yes. And I’m not signing a fucking thing,” I added.
She grabbed her briefcase and headed out the door. Sheriff Fletcher met her on the other side. A wicked smile crossed her lips. “I’ll think about it. In the meantime, Carl,” she said as she put her hand on Sheriff Fletcher’s shoulder, “please take Abby to the infirmary. It seems she needs medical attention.”
It was only a half-assed sucker punch to my cheek. It would bruise, but it didn’t hurt. It was a mosquito bite compared to what I’d experienced at Owen’s hands. “No need. I’m fine.”
“Are you?” Bethany winked over her shoulder at me as Sheriff Fletcher entered the room and closed the door behind him. He pulled a nightstick from his belt.
Oh. Fuck.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I AWOKE SO SUDDENLY, it felt like I’d been launched into consciousness. I sat straight up, flinging some sort of ice pack off my forehead and across the room. My ribs protested. I clutched them in apology.
I was in a small sea foam-colored room, I assumed in the infirmary at the police station. Coral Pines didn’t even have a real hospital, and the nearest emergency room was over thirty minutes away in the next town over. So when people had non life threatening injuries—or were beaten by the sheriff with a night stick—they came here, like a bunch of elementary school kids at the fucking nurse’s office.
The paper from the exam table crinkled under my movement as I slowly swung my feet over to the floor. There was a cotton ball with a small bandage over it stuck to my inner arm. I felt sore and woozy, and very much like I’d just gotten my ass kicked by a fat man swinging a heavy plastic baton.
I did a physical inventory. I started at my toes, wiggling each before I bent my knees and lifted my arms. I worked my way up, until I was pressing my fingers against my face to make sure my skull was still intact. I was swollen and in pain, and I may have had a cracked rib or two, but this time I knew I was going to live.