Page 51 of Blade
Kayla wipes her face with the backs of her hands.
“Well, I suppose it worked. She told me to leave, and I did—I ran out of there as fast as I could. I went back to Avery Hall and told Jo and Indy what happened. And they did what you would think. They hugged me and told me all the ways they would get revenge—but I told them to stop. Because where would I go if Dawn made me leave?”
Her face steadies, and she regains control. This is not the end of the story.
“Later that week I had a session with Dr. Westin. I didn’t tell him what happened, but he knew. He kept asking if I wanted to talk aboutsomething. And I kept saying no, that I was fine. And then he said the strangest thing to me, which didn’t make sense until hours later. Something like ‘Your friends will follow where you lead them.’ And how that power came with ‘great responsibility.’ And about Indy—how I had a friend who was ‘poised to see her dreams come true, but she can’t seem to get out of her own way. Can she?’ He said it was important that I help her. ‘It’s important,’ he said—and this I remember, his exact words—‘that all of you are devoted to the program.’”
Jesus Christ.I think about Westin, who was just in the condo with me. His wool sweater and gray socks bunched up by his ankles. The boots by the door. His name on that book.
There’s so much I want to say to her. But I can’t contain the questions that take on a force inside me.
“Do you really think he knew what Dawn did to you in her office? That she put her hands around your neck? Threatened you?”
She doesn’t hesitate with an answer.
“Of course he knew. And I don’t think I’m the only one, though Jo swore Dawn never touched her. But she didn’t care about Jo. And the thing is, I don’t think she cared about me either,” she says, spinning the coffee cup in circles on the table. “It was about Indy. That was who she cared about, and that was who needed to fall in line. Westin’s message was pretty damned clear.”
Yes,I think. Dawn was always sending messages behind her fake smile and that one crooked tooth. Indy was her prized skater. And Patrice’s daughter. It was an irreconcilable conflict inside her.
“And it was received,” Kayla continues. “Indy fell in line as best she could, crying to us and Bobby Stark behind Dawn’s back. Begging her mother to let her come home, but never telling her the truth about Dawn. And we—me. Well ...”
“You became reckless,” I interject. The pieces land in a new place, but one that makes sense. “And Jo—she did what she always did.”
Kayla lets go of the cup and leans back. “She pretended it never happened.”
When I met them that first day, all of this had come and gone. I’d stepped into the aftermath.
“I told you that story to explain. So you would understand ... if I wanted anyone dead, it would be Dawn. What happened at the field was horrible. But it’s that day in Dawn’s office that haunts me.”
I consider this in light of my work. My experience. How abuse by someone trusted leaves a different kind of wound.
“Do I wonder what shape my life would have taken if Emile hadn’t told me not to report the rape—that no one would believe me, and then my life would be over? All the fucking time.” And now her face reveals the scar that hasn’t fully healed, and I think there are layers upon layers of faces hiding behind this one.
“And how he took my clothes and gave me a bath? Like I was a child. He stayed in the bathroom while I washed myself.”
Her body recoils as this all plays back.
“I mean—was he really looking out for me? Not knowing any better? Or was he protecting The Palace?”
I don’t have an answer. Emile was only twenty-three. But trying to erase Kayla’s rape wasn’t the only time he changed the course of our lives.
Kayla leans forward, elbows on the table, and shakes her head. Then she gets up, and retrieves a piece of paper from a small desk in the corner next to the pantry. She slides it across the table in front of me.
“The thing is,” she says as she sits back down, “about six years ago, someone sent this to me.”
I look at the paper. It’s a clipping fromThe Denver Post—an article about a man who was killed in the woods off Route 27—a mountain road north of Denver. A picture shows the man when he was still alive. He’s wearing the necklace that Kayla told us about that night. The one with the black and white beads. It says he drove semis. That it was a robbery gone wrong. His truck was stolen.
I feel my back straighten, and the air cling to my lungs. I don’t move a single muscle in my body as I stare at the article.
“It’s so strange,” I manage to say.
“I always thought it was Emile who sent it,” she says. “I thought it was his way of, I don’t know, apologizing maybe. Like he saw it and thought it would make me feel better knowing this guy was dead.”
“Did it?” I ask, thinking about the text I got at the conference in Aspen, as I slide the article away from me. The emoji of a blade. It was the day Emile disappeared.
She smiles a little. “Yeah. It did actually. And I don’t care if that makes me a bad person. What I do know is that I felt differently about Emile after that. It took me a while to sort it out. It took the therapist and the stability of my new family.”
Kayla picks up the paper and stares at the man who raped her.