Page 16 of Little Hidden Fears

Rape.

The word itself sent a shiver down my spine.

No wonder she’d spent her adult life trying to help others overcome their own misfortunes. In ways, I was sure it was therapeutic—a way for her to help herself, and others, to move on.

“It must have been hard for her to tell you what happened,” I said.

“It took about four months before she told me. Before then, she told everyone she’d fallen down some stairs in the hallway after school. Some believed her, some didn’t. When the truth came out, I’d like to think I was the one who convinced her to talk to the police.”

“You were in the right place at the right time,” I said.

“I’ve never seen it that way. If I’d been there before it happened, I could have stopped him, saving her from the nightmare that animal had put her through.”

Dominic stood, rubbing a hand along his face.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“Of course I’m not all right. I don’t want to talk about this stuff anymore. It’s too ... it’s too hard.”

I was learning so much and wanted to continue. At the same time, I didn’t want to pressure him into overload when he was hurting. I’d arrived at the house with so many questions about the fact he was mere feet away from his wife when she was murdered. I’d even considered him a suspect. Now, getting to know him, my conscience told me he was innocent, that everything he was telling me was true.

I was just about to suggest we get together another day when he looked at me and said, “Can we take a break?”

A break was far different than asking me to leave.

“Sure,” I said. “Whatever you need.”

“Five or ten minutes?”

“You got it.”

He walked to the pantry, reaching up to the top shelf as he pulled out a bottle of rum. He gave me a nod and then exited the kitchen, bottle in hand, and I sat there, watching him turn the corner, tears streaming down his face as he disappeared down the hall.

CHAPTER 7

Several minutes later, I was beginning to think Dominic wasn’t coming back to finish our conversation. I decided I’d wait another few minutes, then call out to him. If he didn’t respond, I’d leave a note and show myself out.

Another few minutes passed, and to my surprise, I heard a door crack open. Dominic returned to the kitchen, still in his robe and looking even worse than before. He’d returned without the bottle of rum. I wondered where it was and how much he’d drunk, though I wasn’t about to question him about it.

The man was grieving.

If a bottle of rum helped him get through the day, who was I to judge?

“Sorry for the wait,” he said, sliding back into the chair. “I wanted to talk to my daughter, tell her I love her.”

“I understand. You’re a good father.”

“I don’t know about that, but thank you.”

“Are you ready to continue our conversation?”

“I am. And hey, you can ask me anything, all right?”

Ask him anything?

What happened to the standoffish guy I’d met when I arrived, the one who wasn’t interested in having a conversation?

Liquid courage, perhaps.