Page 11
Chapter
Eleven
GINGER
B eep. Beep. Beep.
I listen to the high-pitched click of a heart monitor as my mind slowly wanders back to me. The effort feels interminable, like I may never reunite my mind with my physical body. Minutes feel like hours, or maybe hours like minutes. Slowly, the heat of the fire-warmed cave and the masculine deliciousness of Roscoe’s mouth fade into a very different reality.
I’m in a hospitable, and the sounds I hear are coming from machines hooked to me. My heart bursts with gratitude yet again. He did it. Roscoe somehow got me to New Brunswick, although the details around it remain fuzzy and far away, like watching a movie backwards through foggy glass.
Snippets of memory tumble around in my head, like mismatched socks in the dryer. My Ranger’s rugged face, exuding concern as he carried me through the snowy woods. Carried me where? I strain to remember. His shoulder bled, and he grimaced in pain.
The Jeep. Oh God! Asher’s Jeep. But why? My thoughts feel so twisted and turned I can’t make sense of them. And the coat I wore and boots—Asher Scofield’s coat and boots. The images sit in my mind like still frames, making my brain fester and toil to piece it all together.
My eyes snap open, taking in the white, impersonal room where my hospital bed sits. A curtain is drawn back, a study in muted shades of pastel, but the bed next to me is empty. So, is the chair by my bed where someone recently sat. I can tell by the depressions in the cushions.
Roscoe. Where’s Roscoe?
I close my eyes, nodding off again to the sound of the noisy monitor. The mountain man’s arms encircle me, his burnished gold hair between my fingers. His heartbeat calms me as I drift back into a primal world of caves illuminated by fire and love—tender, wild, and unbridled. A place where I feel infinitely safe and cared for despite the horror of everything I’ve endured.
A hand squeezes mine, and I startle awake.
“Shh,” a familiar voice says, and the corners of my mouth turn up.
“Mama?” I ask, slowly opening my eyes to stare at my mother’s face. She looks absolutely exhausted. Like she’s aged ten years overnight. Guilt grips me. Did I do this to her?
“Yes, baby, it’s me. Take it easy. You’ve been through so much, and you need to rest.” Her voice trembles as she squeezes my hand lightly.
“I can’t wrap my head around it all,” I say drowsily, shaking my head from side to side gently against the pillow. “It comes to me in pieces, but I can’t remember it all. How long have I been here?”
She presses her lips firmly together. “About two days now. You came in with bacterial pneumonia, which turned into sepsis. I lost count of how many different antibiotics doctors tried until they found something your body responded to. Oh, my baby girl, you’ve been through so much!” Lament fills her voice, and she looks at me with apprehension as though there’s so much more she wants to say. I nod, fighting to hold back sobs.
Taking a seat, she adds, “But we’ll get everything sorted out. Everything. I promise.”
“Where’s Roscoe?” I ask quietly, and her face freezes, her mouth motionless. So, I repeat myself, “Where’s Roscoe? Roscoe Vaughn?”
She covers her mouth with her hand, staring at me with pitying eyes. “Where he can never hurt you again, baby girl. I promise.”
“What?” I ask, furrowing my brows and feeling my heart quiver. Where he can never hurt me again? What does that mean? My mind races to the things he confessed to me … about wanting to self-delete. If anything has happened to him, I won’t be able to go on. Fear grips me along with anger. How could he leave me like this?
But then it hits me. Despite everything that happened in the cave, Roscoe never promised me anything. I bury my head in my hand, trying to make sense of everything.
She continues, “We don’t have to talk about this now, Ginger. We can save it for later…when you’re stronger. But all you have to know is that he can never hurt you again.”
Oh God! My mind spins toward a thousand different conclusions at the finality of her words. “Please tell me he’s okay…” I squeak.
Her eyes narrow, her face grimacing. “He’s in jail.”
“But why? And why do you think he would hurt me?”
“You need to rest. We can talk about?—”
“No,” I interrupt, using my arms to sit up and failing miserably. It’s as though all the strength has been drawn from my body. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. Jail?” I bite my lower lip, my head churning with so many disordered memories, all thrumming around in my head like the pieces of a shaken jigsaw puzzle.
“For what he did.”
I stare at her incredulously, my face twisting. My memories may be a jumble, but I know one thing with complete certainty. Taking a deep breath, I declare, “I would have died without Roscoe Vaughn.”
“No, Ginger,” she says flatly. “I don’t know what he tried to make you believe. How he might have gaslighted you after kidnapping you, but?—”
“Gaslighting me? Kidnapping me? Are you out of your mind?” My pulse pounds furiously at the accusations. How can my mother, who was nowhere near the woods where Roscoe found me, try to tell me what happened?
“Police are holding him for the assaults and murders of Tiffany and Crystal and a young man who was a graduate student at the U. I can’t remember his name off the top of my head. A handsome young man with curly brown hair … a senator’s son.”
How can she have the story so backward? I stare at her in mute horror as she continues, “Police have gathered all the evidence they need in your case, too.”
“My case?”
She looks down at her hands, shame clouding her face.
“What he did to me? I don’t understand.”
Exhaling sharply, she says, “We should leave this for another time.”
“No, I want to know now.”
She swallows loudly. “When you were admitted to the ER, you consented to a sexual assault forensic exam.”
My head spins. I don’t remember any of this. Not even being admitted.
“They found his DNA under your fingernails and a bite mark and bruises. I don’t want you to be scared the first time you look in the mirror. And they found his DNA elsewhere along with recent signs of trauma.”
“God, no,” I mutter, shaking my head.
She squeezes my hand again. “It’s okay, baby. The police have everything they need, and Vaughn explained why you were wearing the young man’s coat and boots.” She leans closer, whispering, “At first, you were under suspicion, too.”
I shake my head, my thoughts reeling. Under suspicion of what?
“Fortunately, we’ve caught everything early. So, if the assault leads to any … complications, we can terminate it before it becomes a problem.”
“Terminate it? You mean, like if I’m pregnant?” My voice fills the room, bordering on hysterical. “Never. I would never let anyone hurt our baby.”
She massages her temples with her hand. “The psychologist who came in yesterday said you might wake up like this … confused about everything. She had a name for the syndrome, but I can’t remember it now. Where the victim sympathizes with her assailant. I guess it’s pretty common in kidnappings. Would you like to speak with her? She’s very?—”
“You have it all wrong.” The words pour out of me, sizzling with outrage. I pull my hand from hers, crossing my arms.
“He’s a troubled man, Ginger. Former military, a wounded warrior, diagnosed with depression, severe PTSD, and suicidal ideation. His own family can’t vouch for him, saying he disappeared without a trace four years ago. Based on what detectives have pieced together so far, he kidnapped the young man, murdered him, and stole his Jeep and some clothing. It was that vehicle that he drove you to the hospital in?—”
“He drove me to the hospital,” I cut in, repeating her words with emphasis. “He drove me to the hospital. Do you really think a serial rapist and murderer would drive me to the hospital?”
Shaking her head, she counters, “He was shot and needed medical attention. Law enforcement alleges you lucked out by being with him.”
But her words don’t fit with the snippets of memory that wash over me. Of him holding me in the ER, stroking my face, and whispering reassuring words. Of him protesting when the staff separated us.
“He saved my life, Mama.” I bite my lower lip hard, tasting blood. “And not just once. We’re talking multiple times within my first few hours of knowing him. Without Roscoe, I wouldn’t be alive.”
“But what about the evidence? His skin under your fingernails, the corresponding scratches he has. The bite mark and bruises.” Her voice trembles.
I level my eyes on her. “He saved me, Mama. I’m sure you can figure out the rest.” This has to be the most embarrassing conversation of my life. But it’s nothing compared to what Roscoe must be enduring. I observe flatly, “The scratch marks weren’t on his face.”
She lets out an uncomfortable sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan. “But you’ve always been such a good girl.” She pauses, twisting her hands in her lap. “I’m getting too old for this… What about your roommates and that poor young man?”
“Poor nothing!” Fury pounds through me, stealing my speech.
Her eyebrows fly up to her hairline.
“Have they found any DNA evidence implicating Roscoe at my house?”
She shakes her head. “Investigators said he used condoms and covered his tracks thoroughly.”
“And then, he decided not to do the same thing with me?”
“Don’t be mad at me, Ginger,” she sniffles. “I’m only telling you what investigators have told me.”
Her words go straight to my heart, and I instantly regret berating her. “I’m sorry, Mama,” I apologize. “I’m just furious about how wrong everyone has this.”
But she’s only half listening as she searches her phone, holding up a picture for me. It’s a mugshot of Roscoe, and it steals the breath from my lungs.
The backs of my eyes smart as I stare at it. His face is wild and unkempt, my handsome, rugged mountain man. Only the media uses this image to frame him as a monster. The headline above the image reads:
Horror in the Woods: Lone, Ex-Military Mountain Man Charged in Triple Homicide, Assaults, & Kidnapping
“They have it all wrong,” I whisper, fighting a sob, and feeling like my head will explode. Seizing the phone from my mother, I stare at Roscoe, indulging in one moment of admiration.
My mother doesn’t miss this, her face shifting from disbelief to curiosity. Clearing her throat, she asks, exasperation edging her voice, “Then, who did this to you, Ginger?”
I flip down through the article until I reach the photos of the victims, tearing up at the sight of my roommates, Crystal and Tiffany. “They didn’t deserve this,” I say quietly, images of them dead in our kitchen flashing through my head. I scroll down further until I reach the picture I need. It causes such a visceral response that I drop the phone in my lap, my hands shaking.
My mother stands, grimacing as she grabs the cell, scrutinizing Asher’s photo.
“ That’s who kidnapped me,” I say, my voice trembling uncontrollably.
“The student who was killed?” she asks again, flashing the photo at me.
I nod, tears pouring down my face. “Asher Scofield killed Crystal and Tiffany, and he kidnapped me. If it wasn’t for Roscoe, I’d be dead and buried in an unmarked grave in the woods or worse. And this filthy, horrific, inhumane, fucking piece of trash would still be walking the streets.” Rage fuels my words, and I fight hard not to spit at the phone.
She exhales loudly. “I need to call the detectives working this case….”
I nod, drawing a deep breath and thinking of Roscoe to steel my nerves and fight the panic that grips me at the sight of my kidnapper.
Knitting her brows and looking conflicted, she asks, “But are you up for this? This is the first time you’ve been truly responsive in two days.”
Her words make me question everything she’s told me so far. If I haven’t been responsive, then why would the hospital do a sexual assault forensic exam on me and say I consented? All I know is nothing matters until I clear Roscoe’s name and see him again. There will be plenty of time for questions later.
“Yes, Mama, I have to do this now before everything blows more out of control. Roscoe Vaughn is a hero, my savior. The world has to know this.”
“Okay.” She exhales, looking wholly unconvinced. Part of me wonders if she’s calling the psychologist she mentioned earlier instead of the police.
After a moment’s thought, I add, “I need to speak to Dad, too. Roscoe needs a lawyer, and I do, too.”
Dad’s remarried with an obscene amount of money for whatever he does that he can’t talk to me about. He lives well, maintains a stellar public reputation, and has ready access to lawyers and any other resources we may need.
He has more than enough money to help me bring a lawsuit against the hospital for an invasive and non-consensual medical procedure and, more importantly, to clear Roscoe of spurious charges. I just wonder how my mountain man savior could possibly still want me after all I’ve put him through…