Page 3 of Rear View

Present Day

Ryah

“Edgewater Police Department, how can I direct your call?” the man on the other end of the line said. He sounded pleasant…enough. As pleasant as anyone who dealt with the public could be, I guessed.

The pit in my stomach knotted. “Could I please speak to Officer Maynard?”

My best friend and roommate, Zoya Bakshi, tagged along while I aimed for the psych building on the U of E’s campus, because Professor Charles Barlowe, my thesis adviser and de facto counselor—whether I wanted it or not—did not like to be kept waiting.

The sun died on the campus’s horizon, its long shadows running toward the night. My body was tense, my gaze flicking frenetically from face to face. I might’ve mistrusted people, but I liked crowds. Safety in numbers, and all. Well, maybe not safety. But at the very least, witnesses.

Our boots crunched on the snow as Zoya shoved her ear to my phone, not so subtly eavesdropping.

“Who’s speaking?” the man asked.

Ugh. I hated this part. All of it, really, but the second Maynard heard my name… “Ryah Nolan.”

“Please hold.” There was a click, then a weird bonging dial tone.

The frigid February wind cut across campus like a knife. The old brick buildings acted like a funnel, blasting it along the walkways. It stung when it bit at me, undoubtedly turning my cream-colored skin a bitter shade of red.

I tucked my plaid scarf inside my oat-colored wool coat. It was loose, not overly flattering, but that was by design. Wallpaper. That’s what I was. Not what I wanted to be, but I hadn’t gotten what I’d wanted since he’d forced himself into my life.

Zoya pulled back, her soft hazel eyes fierce when they pierced mine. “You got this. Advocate for yourself.”

“Yeah,” I uttered.

“Very convincing,” she deadpanned, throwing the loose Dutch braid of her stunning black hair over her shoulder. Seriously, it nearly reached her ass, was sleek, shiny and made me envious to my bones. “Maybe try that again with a little more oomph.” She nudged me with her elbow. “Stand tall, girl.”

“Yeah!” I said, voice high in mock excitement.

She shook her head. “That was pathetic.”

I offered her a toothy smile. We veered around a couple energetically making out in the center of the path, and a pang of jealousy burned my stomach. What I wouldn’t give…

The line clicked in, and a gruff voice came over the speaker. “Officer Maynard.”

“Hello, this is—”

He exhaled a heavy breath. “I know who you are, Ryah.”

Zoya scowled and flipped off my phone.

Was that just who Maynard was? Or was that just who he was with me? I’d specifically requested him for my case after he’d done a talk about women’s safety on campus. Worst decision ever, seeing as he was an “all talk, no action” kinda man.

My throat closed over. I loathed these calls. Loathed second-guessing myself and being dismissed like I was the problem, instead of the guy who’d perpetrated everything in the first place.

Stand tall . A bit tough for my five-foot-four butt to do.

Regardless, I repeated it in my head like a rallying cry—a weak and feebly whispered one, but a rallying cry, nonetheless.

In truth, if it wasn’t for Zoya, I might never have bothered with the calls at all. It wasn’t like they’d ever helped.

I cleared my throat. “I wondered if there’s been any progress on my case?” I asked, my tone meeker than I intended.

Zoya gave a thumbs-up.

“If there was anything new, I’d call you, Miss Nolan,” Maynard said.

My frown was deep.

“Without a name or description, we have nothing to go on.” Maynard was older, close to retirement, a fact he’d shared countless times before. As if he’d been dry begging to be left alone. “Unless you’re calling to offer new information, please, just let me do my job.”

Zoya’s hand twitched like she itched to grab the phone.

I internally scoffed. Do his job? It’d been two years since he’d shown up. Two years in which the EPD had made less than zero progress. Not even a restraining order.

Stand tall. Stand tall. Stand tall!

“I forwarded you more of his messages.” Tugging a pen from the front pocket of my hand-me-down leather messenger bag, I chewed its cap. A chunk of the blue plastic broke off and scraped against my tongue. I gagged when it slid down my throat.

Zoya smacked the pen away from my mouth.

The clanking of keys carried through the speaker. “And I’ve added them to your file, but ultimately, they give us nothing.”

Thought it gave them evidence, but okay.

“Cybercrimes are difficult, Miss Nolan. The culprits are often never found. Without something tangible, we’re dead in the water.”

But it hadn’t been just a cybercrime, a fact he knew well. “Can’t you run one of those scans on my phone?”

“We’ve discussed this, Miss Nolan. We don’t have the resources to scan the phone of every person being harassed.”

Harassed? That’s what he thought this was? Harassment? My mouth thinned into a hard line. “I didn’t say—”

“Do you have any more leads to offer?”

“Thought finding leads was his responsibility,” Zoya mumbled.

I used to think that too, but I’d given up that naive trust a long time ago. My gaze fell, along with my shoulders. “No.”

“Then I need to go. If anything changes, let me know.” There was a shuffling on the line. “You have a nice day, Miss Nolan.”

The call ended.

Zoya straightened. “What a dick.”

“The dickiest,” I said, then shoved the device away. “I don’t even know why I bother anymore.”

“Because, in your own words, you”—she did air quotes to mimic me—“‘need a paper trail.’”

I shook my head. Lots of good it did me.

Rubbing the back of my neck, I pulled out my notebook and scribbled everything down.

Simple details to log the information. Date.

Time. Contact made. What was discussed. I’d transfer it to my computer later, but it was the same every time.

And it was always the same outcome: nothing.

Tears pricked the back of my eyes.

Her expression softened. “I hate this, Ryah.”

She hated it? I wanted my life back. Wanted to stop looking over my shoulder.

Wanted to trust and live and breathe again.

But it wasn’t her fault. Only a handful of people knew what’d happened; the rest, including my parents, were oblivious.

They’d noticed me retreat. Noticed my clothes change.

Watched the light leave my eyes until I’d withered and shriveled and faded to nothing.

Because that’s what I’d needed to become.

Nothing.

Mom had pushed, but the last thing I wanted was for her to worry. I’d sworn my younger brother, Miles, to secrecy, and he’d been good on his word.

My phone buzzed and I eyed the screen. I bit my lip, a smile pulling my cheeks when I spotted the name there.

Christian: Hey. You around?

Me: Meeting with Barlowe, then headed home. Everything okay?

My heart thudded against my ribs, heat crawling up my face while I waited for a response. And waited.

Zoya arched a brow. “What is it?”

I traced my finger along the edge of my screen. “Christian.”

Things with him were…tangled. We’d been friends through high school, then started dating three years earlier, in undergrad. We’d lasted all of fourteen months before he ended it, saying he loved me but just didn’t see a future for us. Still, to me, his reasoning had been…suspect.

“Oh?” She pulled a chocolate bar from her pocket, and unwrapped it, displaying the henna that crawled up her light, sepia-toned hands—a remnant from her mother’s birthday celebration three days earlier.

It disappeared up her arm and under the sleeve of her down jacket.

Her gold bracelets jangled when she shoved a sizable bite in her mouth, then said around it, “What’d he say? ”

Zoya wasn’t a fan of my ex. Hadn’t really held back about it, not that she’d needed to, seeing as we’d known each other since third grade.

“He’s wondering if I’m free.”

Her frown was deep. “Why?”

“Does he need a reason?”

She shook her head. “No, but he never asks without one.”

“I’m choosing not to be offended by that.”

“Choose away!” Grinning wide, she took another bite. “I’m betting it’s trouble in paradise.”

Christian Fellows had been on-again, off-again with his girlfriend, Chloe, for a while, and he did have patterns.

It’d stung when he’d eventually moved on—a lot.

Yes, it’d been a while since we’d split, but my still being entrenched in his life meant I hadn’t really let go.

I bitterly snatched the rest of the bar from Zoya’s grasp and stuffed it into my mouth.

She stared at me, slack-jawed. “Thievery.”

I made a show of swallowing as my long, toffee-brown hair whipped over my face and into my mouth. I spit it out as my foot slid over an icy patch on the cement and shot to the side. I squeaked, arm flying out to steady myself.

“Jeez, some salt would be nice,” Z said.

Indeed. It wasn’t like they couldn’t afford it, seeing as they were one of the top-tier Canadian schools, and being West Coast meant it was ludicrously expensive to boot.

Without my scholarship and TA position, the place never would’ve been in the cards for me.

It wasn’t that my parents were broke, but my brother, Miles, had played competitive hockey since he was little.

A goaltender, at that. So, every spare penny the family had was funneled into his dream.

He deserved it. At twenty, he’d earned his way into the Major Junior League as captain of the Edgewater Sharks.

And I’d been smart enough to get a full ride, so it’d worked out in the end.

I checked my watch. Late, I was late. “Oh, shit! I gotta go.” I skipped back a step.

“I’ve got my stats exam tomorrow, so there’s a study group tonight,” Zoya reminded me. Math and its offshoots were easy for her, but when it came to her finance degree, she’d accept nothing but perfection. “Don’t panic when I come in late.”