step up to the plate as she tried when I arrived weeks ago. Alas, sometimes I’m as selfish as I am sorrow-filled.
A honeysuckle scent fills my nostrils when Phillipa steps into the alcove to glance over my shoulder. “Melody, hi. Is BJ… ah… Brandon here?”
“No. He’s with Dr. Avery.” I’m not sharing guarded secrets. Phillipa is aware of Brandon’s counseling sessions as she was the one who organized them for him. The first visit was under the guise he needed a psych workup to become a consultant with the CIA.
I nod when Phillipa mumbles, “I thought you went with him to his sessions?”
“Usually, I do. I must have slept through my alarm.” After opening the door wider, I gesture for Phillipa to come in. “He left me a note. He should be back in around thirty minutes or so. You can wait for him inside if you’d like.”
“Ah…” She looks more uncomfortable now than she did when her eyes landed on my bare legs sticking out the bottom of one of Brandon’s shirts. “It isn’t really a pop-in visit. I just… ah… needed to borrow a cup of sugar.”
Her stumbling words already have my suspicions rising, much less the way she keeps blinking. And don’t get me started on her piss-poor excuse for her visit, or we’ll be here all morning. She’s not only lying, her silence adds to the controversy of her visit. Her high-pitch isn’t the only voice my implants are picking up.
“It isn’t as it seems,” Phillipa garbles out when I tug out a listening device from her right ear.
When I press it to my ear, I hear Grayson curse before he produces his own pathetic excuse for the invasion of privacy. “I swear to you, we’re trying to save him unnecessary worry, Melody. That’s it.”
I don’t want to believe him, but I do. “Then you better get your ass up here and tell me what’s going on before BJ gets home.”
After handing Phillipa back the bead-like device, I head to the kitchen, conscious I’ll need an IV of coffee to get me through the reason for the unease in Grayson’s voice. He sounded more concerned now than he did when he called me out of the blue weeks ago.
“How confident are you that Bobby isn’t Ophelia’s husband’s son?”
As Grayson’s eyes stray over the mess known as Ophelia Petretti’s life, he shrugs. “The dates add up—”
“I know that. I scoured the reports from BJ’s case for hours when he reached out for my help, even after passing on the details for a defense lawyer who specialized in these types of cases. But that means nothing. For all we know, Ophelia could have moved onto her next target the instant she realized BJ wasn’t going to fall for her ruse.” I’m shouting, and it’s unacceptable, but I can’t help it. I’m truly panicked.
I don’t care if Brandon has a child with someone else. In some warped way, it will be good for him to have someone new to protect. I just don’t trust Ophelia. I don’t care who you are, if you falsely accuse a man of rape, you’re a piece of shit. Your lie undoes all the good victims of assault have fought decades to achieve. You steal the voice of rape victims even more than their rapists attempted to do, and you stop victims from coming forward because they’re convinced no one will believe them.
One lie casts a shadow of doubt on hundreds of real cases, so I wish people would remember that when they’re angry their Tinder date didn’t return their call the next day. You have the right to say no. It’s your body, so you’re free to do with it as you wish, but I beg for you not to pretend you were assaulted because your feelings were hurt. That isn’t fair. Not to rape victims like me nor the men who have been wrongly accused and convicted.
Air leaves my lungs in a hurry when Grayson places down a photo of a little boy I’d guess to be around the age of five or six. His hair is as dark as his mother’s, but the shape of his face and the determined twinkle in his eyes aren’t from Ophelia. I’ve seen them many times in my lifetime. All he needs is snow-white hair, and I’d be convinced I’m looking at a portrait of Brandon.
Grayson pushes out a halfhearted chuckle when I mutter, “Is a DNA test even needed?”
Mistaking the tears in my eyes