No Way Back (Mia's Way, #1) (16 page)

“I’m not spending another month like … like this,” I say, motioning to my stomach. “Molly, I can’t even look in the mirror knowing what’s inside me.”

She looks at me for a long moment. “Keep it out of the press.”

“I don’t know how! I haven’t said anything to anyone, and everything I do is in the papers.”

“I can’t believe we let you become so helpless.” Molly sighs. “Two things. One, make sure abortion is what you want to do. Aside from causing political suicide, it runs against everything our family believes in. Two, we need to pull you out of the public spotlight. Now that his base is frothing over you, Daddy is going to try to drag you into his circuit. Refuse. Got it?”

I nod.

“I’ll call your mother this weekend. Don’t talk to anyone about what you want to do. Anyone.”

I nod again, buoyed by the idea she not only knows how to avoid the spotlight, but she’s about to help me for the first time in either of our lives.

“Finish up. I’ve got an appointment.”

I shovel the rest of my breakfast in my mouth. We part ways out front, where I get into one of Daddy’s cars, and she gets into one of Emmitt’s cars. Clutching my phone, I’m starting to feel less like the world is collapsing and overwhelming and more like I might have someone to help me make it through this.

I like the feeling. I don’t know why it took
this
to make my half-siblings accept me.

Chapter Thirteen

When I get home, I get a glimpse of what Molly said about Daddy pulling me in. There’s a folder on my desk. I notice it only because of the contrast between my antique white desk and the black leather. I open it and see neatly filed invitations with sticky notes from Shea on how to dress. The sticky note on top is from Daddy.

Please plan on attending with me. Dress appropriately.

I frown and pull out the invitations, flipping them over one-by-one. Private dinners with ambassadors, fundraiser balls, public charities … there are invitations from all kinds of events that Daddy routinely goes to. That Molly or Mom used to go to with him. Some are as early as this week and some not for another few weeks. One is for a military ball in December.

I place them side-by-side on the desk, not surprised to see they cover most of the surface. Snapping a picture with my phone, I send it to Molly. I finish reading through them. One catches my attention.

Annual Policemen’s Ball. I snap a picture of it, too, and then pull up a blank text. I’ve saved Dom’s number. I type in his name to populate his number and hesitate. What do I say? I don’t want it to seem like I’m asking him on a date or lead him to believe I have any intention of coming forward. After our last exchange, I do want to know if he’s going. I like seeing him.

Molly’s response pops up on my screen.
Decline them all. Fast.

I snort. Have I replaced Shea’s interference in my life with Molly?

I focus on my text to Dom again, start one, delete it and finally type,
do they let people like you into places like this?

I’m not good with people, and I don’t meet new people often that I’m interested in. Assuming I’ll offend him, I tap
send
anyway. Then I gather up all the invitations and put the one to the police ball on top. I walk downstairs to the study, where Chris and Joseph are seated.

“Tell Daddy I’m not going to any of these,” I say loudly and toss them on the table. “Except this one.” I wave the one to the police ball. “I’m not gonna be Daddy’s new arm candy.”

Chris looks at the invites curiously. Joseph offers an amused smile.

“How was brunch?” he asks.

“Strangely enough, I had fun.”

“With Molly?” Chris asks.

“Yes. Tell Shea no, Chris.” I march out of the study and return to my room.

Looking around, I decide to sit at my desk instead of the closet. Gianna’s question about where we see ourselves in the future is on my mind again. For the first time in weeks, I turn on my computer. I start to research pregnancy, abortion and what other options there might be.

I’ve never been much for studying. Teachers won’t fail me, because my dad is who he is, which means I don’t pay much attention in school. When I start feeling overwhelmed about pregnancy again, I open a new browser and start looking at schools.

Where should I go to college?
I text Molly and Ari.

There are thousands of colleges. I know Daddy’s money will get me into any of them, so I start looking at a map of the country to figure out where I might want to live. It’s just as overwhelming as figuring out what I want to do once I get to college.

Ivy League, west coast,
Molly texts back.

You’re going to college?
Ari replies.

I smile. I search for schools in California, Oregon and Washington. My phone vibrates again, and my heart skips a beat to see it’s from Dom.

We lowly Bronx taxi drivers clean up real good for these things. ;-)
is his response.

I snort. I take that to mean he’s going. If he’s there, maybe it won’t be as bad.

Do you think I could be a veterinarian?
I ask Molly and Ari. Their texts are fast and short.

No.

I roll my eyes. I like animals better than people, but I’m not exactly book smart. Maybe it doesn’t matter what I do in college. Maybe I can do whatever I have to for a degree then help animals on the side.

I pull up my list of charities I donate to routinely as part of Daddy’s strategy to keep them from taxing my trust fund dispersals. There are only four I like, three of which are humane societies. The fourth I just added, a local charity that funds women’s shelters in the area. I don’t think I could work at one, though.

I type in a new search, this one for Robert Connor. I’m terrified of seeing his picture again. Most of the search results on the front page are for making it into round two of the NFL draft. I click on one and read, trying hard not to look at his picture. He’s always smiling in his pictures. I’m relieved to see he’s headed to Florida.

That means he’ll be gone from my life forever. California is as far as I can get from Florida. Reluctantly, I look at his picture. Fear goes through me. My hands start shaking again. I stare at him, hating him, wanting to tear his picture up and throw my computer. He’s pictured with several of his teammates in the background. Breathing unsteadily, I focus on them for a moment and freeze.

Madison. Madison is on the football team with him. I stare. I can’t be completely sure. The picture is pixilated and fuzzy. This time, I search for pictures of their football team. I find their official photo on the college website and look for the faces I know.

Madison Stewart, tight end.

My second attacker has a name. My fear is rising almost beyond my control, but I Google him, too, and see he’s headed to Florida with Robert.

Panicking, I close my computer and go to the closet. Wrapping my arms around my knees, I take deep breaths the way Dr. Thompkins taught me.

“There’s no one hiding out to hurt me. I’m afraid, but there’s nothing to fear,” I tell myself out loud. I feel silly, but he said I need to hear it to reinforce it.

Slowly, I conquer the fear and calm down. I start thinking about what Gianna told us to think about. It makes me nauseous to consider how different life will be like in a year or two, if I have a baby. I’ll always have money, but college with a kid? And Molly is right: Daddy will keep using me if I don’t say no or find a way out of the spotlight. Would my kid suffer the same fate? The product of rape makes for a great political statement.

I don’t know why, but suddenly I’m crying. I’m trying hard not to think about being pregnant. Molly is so right about me. I can’t handle the political life. I need to get away as soon as I can.

“I’m afraid, but there’s nothing to fear,” I whisper.

By Monday morning, I’ve accepted Mom isn’t ever coming home. At least, not in the near future. I’m not as devastated as I thought I’d be. Molly has been texting me, and I’m reading one of her notes when I arrive at the women’s center. If possible, the throng of reporters and paparazzi has gotten even larger. I look at them, dismayed, then grip my phone tight and hurry to the front door. It’s raining today, and I forgot my umbrella. The distance is too short to keep me from ruining my makeup.

I duck inside and look towards Wendy, secretly hoping to see Dom. He’s not there. The waiting area is already crowded. I woke up late; it’s past nine, when the clinic opens. I make my way through the building and go to my cube. I start inputting the forms and text between forms.

“Hey, kid,” Gianna greets me. “Doing okay?”

I look up at her and nod. She’s dressed in a bright pink shirt today.

“How do you feel about Friday?”

“It was good,” I say. “I’ll go back this week.”

“You look better today. Get some sleep this weekend?”

“Not really. I still have a lot of nightmares. I had brunch with my sister Saturday. We’re not like you and Dom, but she was really cool for once.”

“That’s great. And your mom?”

I shake my head.

“As long as you’ve got someone else to talk to. You’re bringing a lot of attention to our center with that army of reporters out there.”

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s actually a good thing. We might be able to replace all our aging equipment and expand the dorms. Normally, we don’t see this level of donations until Christmas. I guess Christmas is coming early this year.” Gianna grins. “And it’s because of the attention you’re bringing to us and our cause.”

“That’s good, I guess.”

“Alright, get to work. I’ll check in with you later.”

I’m pleased by her comments, though I haven’t done anything directly to help. I’m glad the throngs of press are useful to someone. Ari sends me links every day of the articles I’m in. Oddly enough, they’re positive.

My time goes quickly today. There’s tons of paperwork to input into the system, and the women around me don’t talk to me. Just before it’s time to leave, my phone vibrates, and I see Ari’s sent me another link. I pause in typing and click it open.

Serial rapist strikes again. Victim brutalized, may not live.

She sends me another text.

They mention you were the seventh victim. I thought there were two guys??

I drop the phone. It clatters to the tile floor, earning me a look from the woman across from me. I grab it and hunch over it, reading the article. The unidentified girl was twenty at a party in DC Saturday. Ari’s right. The news report mentions only one attacker and how it might be the latest in a series of party rapes, whose highest profile victim is me. Number Eight is listed in critical condition. There are no pictures, but the report lists possible brain damage. I can’t help thinking this was one last, celebratory rape before the football season starts, and the guys leave their hometown for good.

For the first time in years, I say a prayer. Number Eight has to survive. There has to be some mercy or goodness or something in this world. There has to be a god who thinks like Dom and Ari and isn’t confused about what’s really right, like I am!