Her chin rose in defiance.
I stepped closer, close enough to make her uncomfortable. “It wasn’t even a tiny bit your fault. None of it. And, for what it’s worth, if you prosecute this guy, you will feel better in the long run, and you’ll prevent him from doing the same thing to someone else.”
Her eyes watered and she turned away from me, embarrassed. “That was a year ago. Even if I could convince a prosecutor of the truth, there’s no evidence.”
I knew it would come down to this. And now her self-esteem was about to take an even bigger beating. I toed the tile with the tip of my flats, not wanting to do this, but desperate times and all. “That’s not entirely true. I promise you, that guy has irrefutable evidence of what happened.”
“What? How can he possibly—?” When she figured it out, when the only answer to her questions slammed into her, she put a hand over her mouth. “Oh, my God, he recorded it.” Her expression fixed on mortification.
“Tabitha, even if the recording doesn’t prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that you were forced against your will, you were fifteen. Fifteen, Tabitha. He was twenty-two. That right there is enough evidence to get him convicted of statutory rape, not to mention the fact that he plied you with alcohol. I’m pretty certain your parents will stop at nothing to see that man behind bars.”
Again, her eyes widened, this time in horror. “I can’t tell my parents.” Her voice cracked and she covered her face. I could practically feel the heat of shame rushing through her. “I can’t.” Heart-wrenching sobs racked her body as the horror of her experience swallowed her again. She had trusted him. A boy from college whom she’d met at a football game. He’d been so sweet. So caring. He’d opened the door for her. Tucked her hair behind her ear. Convinced her to go to his dorm room.
I stepped forward and put a hand on her shoulder. She let me, and after a moment, she encircled me in her arms. She cried for several heartbreaking moments, her shoulders quaking with each sob, until I felt her mother would wait no longer. I stepped back, smiled reassuringly, and walked toward the door as she finally noticed the woman standing in the doorway to the kitchen, her mouth covered with the dish towel she’d been using, her expression full of compassion.
They would be okay. Tabitha would be okay, and I chose to see that as a positive thing.
I smiled when I spotted Jared across the street. Ever the diligent guardian. I guess, if this was the price I had to pay for saving the world, I’d just have to learn to live with it.
* * *
One week later, I woke up in the middle of the night and felt, for the first time, completely at ease in my surroundings. My room was gorgeous. I had to add some color, having no idea what I’d been thinking with everything so white. Maybe I’d been trying to sterilize my surroundings. To surround myself with cleanliness since being faced with a dirty alternative: the threat of war. The destruction of all things on earth. The deaths of everyone I knew and loved.
But we were living in a new time and I was beginning to embrace it. Jared had moved into the same apartment behind my grandparents’ store after a major overhaul. Thankfully, just like last time, we had a plethora of men ready and willing to help out in the church. They worked tirelessly and had him moved in in three days. It was amazing what men would do to stay on the good side of the Angel of Death.
Because I couldn’t get back to Maine, I’d actually had to tell Kenya over e-mail that she’d saved the world. Or, at the very least, helped save it. If she hadn’t gone back for those photographs, I had no idea what would have happened.
She wrote me back. She didn’t believe the memories until I contacted her. She was thrilled and excited and honored to have been a part of the war. But her recollection was fuzzy, and she asked me how she’d died. She remembered dying.
I lied in my next e-mail. How could I recount such a horrid event? I told her I didn’t know. I told her I’d lost sight of her and when I’d looked back, she was gone. She wrote again, reminding me she carried a switchblade. I told her the truth in my third e-mail. As tough as she was, it was hard for her to hear.
We made plans for her to come to Riley’s Switch in the summer. Her parents, the same parents who’d taught her all about me, about the prophecies and coming war, were beside themselves with glee at how everything had turned out. They wanted to meet me and my parents and my grandparents and the nephilim. They weren’t certain about meeting the Angel of Death, but when I assured them he was on an Angel of Death hiatus, they agreed to meet him, too. Reluctantly.
After finding out exactly how much Kenya remembered, I told her to be wary of Wade, the stick figure–drawing maniac. She said it was already taken care of. He’d apparently started having visions of a different time, a different reality, and went stone crazy.
When asked if she had anything to do with his mental issues, Kenya pleaded the fifth.
I longed to see Crystal again. Kenya promised she was keeping an eye on her. In fact, they’d become very good friends. Crystal, unfortunately, didn’t remember me. It seemed that only those with a direct connection to the events that day had the memories. So I asked Kenya if that were so, how did Wade remember?
She pleaded the fifth. Again.
I liked her.
For some odd reason, those were the things I thought about as I walked barefoot into the forest. The full moon helped light my path. My feet should have been cold. The forest floor should have cut as I walked across it. My gown should have been wet from the light droplets of rain I’d encountered earlier. And perhaps all of that was true, but I paid them no mind.