her, pressed her into the banquette. They were alone on the mezzanine. The meal had gone late as Sullivan brag-confessed, and the waiters and everyone else had disappeared.
She kept her legs clamped but he pushed his hand up farther. The skirt began to tear, a slow rrrrrip, the sound horrifying. She had pepper spray in her purse but she didn’t know if she could reach it.
“Stop. Please.”
For a moment he hesitated, nodded as if to apologize.
Then he kissed her, his lips thick and rubbery, his tongue like a cat pawing at a mouse hole, his breath sour with scotch. Bile rose in her throat. This couldn’t be happening. Not here, a public space, a restaurant. But it was. Sullivan grunted, a low animal sound. His self-control evaporated all at once. He pushed the table back with his legs like an animal who needed room, sending dishes clattering.
If she didn’t do something, he was going to rape her.
She jerked her arm up, the self-defense training from Quantico taking over, and slammed back his chin. He cursed and slipped back, giving her enough space to scream.
Sullivan pulled away as a waiter thumped up the stairs to the mezzanine. They sat side by side in silence, staring across the empty room. As if the dishes had fallen by themselves. He was panting, from arousal or pain she didn’t know.
The waiter hurried over. “Everything okay, ma’am?”
She stood, unsteadily. She leaned back against the banquette, feeling its cool leather against her hands. Now that she had escaped, every sensation was magnified; she heard a fork clicking against a plate downstairs as if the diners were at the next table.
“Bathroom.” She staggered away.
* * *
The bathroom was empty. She ran the faucet, waited for her breathing to steady. Rachel and Rebecca had both been wrong. Sullivan was a bad guy, he took what he wanted, what wasn’t his. Why had she imagined he wouldn’t do the same with her? She was nothing but a warm hole to him. She splashed water on her face, reapplied her lipstick, smoothed her skirt.
She hated Sullivan. But she hated herself a little too.
* * *
At Quantico they’d had training for talking to survivors of sexual assault. One afternoon only. Rape cases were mostly local, not FBI. Survivors often blame themselves for what’s happened, wonder if they encouraged their assailants. You should remind them that the victim—the survivor—is never to blame.
Never? She’d known what she was doing, teasing Sullivan into talking—
No. Not her fault.
She dabbed her face with a napkin once more. Thought back to Ned and that night at Drakes. Now she had a law enforcement story all her own. Haw-haw-haw.
When she came back the plates were reset, a new glass of scotch for Sullivan. He smiled at her as though nothing had happened. “Feisty.”
“You have no idea.” She kept her voice steady.
“You want coffee? Or should we get out of here?”
She needed every ounce of self-control not to pepper-spray him until he gagged. Was he joking? For the first time she understood gaslighting; she wondered if she could trust her own memory. Only it wasn’t memory, it was still happening, her heart thumping one hundred fifty beats a minute. She wondered if she could last through coffee with him, decided the answer didn’t matter. He’d given her more than enough. In every way.
“I’m gonna go home.” She paused. “Alone.”
“See you soon, babe.”
“You know it.”
* * *
She had planned to sleep that night in Rachel’s downtown condo. She didn’t want to risk Sullivan following her home. But as she left Bottega she found herself almost automatically tracing the route that led to I-65 and her house. To husband and daughter and son.
She swung the M3 around. She didn’t get to go home. Not tonight. What would she tell Brian about Sullivan? What would he do? What if he confronted Sullivan and destroyed the investigation? What if he didn’t? What if he simply accepted that this man had attacked her? What if he blamed her?
Which would be worse?
No. She didn’t want him to know.
When she took the job, she’d promised Brian, No secrets. In this together.
Turned out she’d lied.
* * *
The arrests came three months later.
Two bank CEOs, seven state legislators, three sheriffs, an Alabama Supreme Court justice, four mayors, eight developers, almost two dozen assessors and bureaucrats and local judges. Plus the one-and-only Draymond Sullivan. More than forty in all, a huge haul. Even Rebecca couldn’t keep track of everyone. She’d gathered evidence directly on almost half the targets. The