a stranger. And he caught it all on camera. How will you explain that when it leaks?
“Mr. Coleman,” she said.
“Patty, would you like to talk? Privately?” He looked down at his wife, Barbara. “Would you mind if we spoke alone? I know the grandkids are coming soon. We won’t be long.”
“Of course not,” she said. She looked at Patty with concern. “I don’t know why I’m about to straighten up the house, because they’ll just make it a mess again. Pride, I guess. You two go and have a chat. See if you can figure out where Cheryl is.” She put her hand on Patty’s forearm and furrowed her brow. “And don’t look so concerned, dear. Cheryl is going to be fine. It’s not as if you did something wrong.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“I did do something wrong,” Patty said.
She was sitting in James Coleman’s study, the walls of which were lined with bookcases filled with law books and, in one corner of the room, a space reserved for the popular thrillers he enjoyed.
It was a masculine-looking room. The Coleman’s house was a large Victorian that dated back to 1870. A true New Englander, probably owned not by one of Bangor’s former lumber barons, whose mansions mostly were found on a small portion of West Broadway, but by somebody in higher management who could afford a more reasonably sized home with the finer details she saw now.
The wood never had been painted and it gleamed dark against the light green walls. Above them was an ornate tin ceiling and, where the walls met the ceiling, intricately carved molding. Light in the room was dim because the windows faced west. Later in the day, it would be ablaze with sunlight. The inlaid floor was a mix of maple and mahogany. It gleamed with a high-gloss sheen, as if it recently had been refinished.
James Coleman was sitting opposite her in the same sort of leather wingback in which she sat. “There are layers of wrong,” he said. “Human layers that, depending on your perspective, are subjective and not necessarily wrong. What do you consider wrong?”
The sense of shame she felt was almost crippling. “We got a little drunk last night.”
“I’ve been drunk several times in my life. Mostly, I enjoyed it. Sometimes, the next morning, not so much. Was I wrong to do it? Subjective, but I don’t think so.”
“I did something stupid.”
“We all have.”
“Not like this,” Patty said. “I left with a man last night. I left Cheryl alone at the club. I took him to my house, something I’ve never done with a stranger, in spite of what this town thinks of me. I was drunk. I was attracted to him. I took him home and I left her there. Now, she’s nowhere to be found.” She paused. “And it gets worse.”
He was looking at her intently. “How does it get worse?”
“The man I took home? He drugged me. He raped me. He made me do sick things I don’t remember doing. He caught it all on camera and then he placed the photos on a website. He told me that if I don’t kill myself for my sins as a whore that he would send my family, my employer and my friends that link. He said it would confirm who I was. He said when it came to my ‘friends,’ the link would go viral and the rest of my life would be akin to a public stoning.”
James Coleman stood. “You said he drugged you?”
“I know he did. He must have.”
“And he raped you?”
She nodded.
“You’ve showered, so there might be an issue gathering evidence, but there’s always a chance, so we need to try because it could tell us who this person is if he’s on record. I need you to go to the hospital with me. They will perform a procedure to see if they can get any of his DNA from you. They also will do a blood test to see what he drugged you with. This is a crime, Patty, and it’s something you must do, but time is of the essence.”
“This will go to the press?”
“Probably.”
She sat with that knowledge for a moment, and then she shrugged. “So, everyone will finally get their confirmation letter about me. Whatever. I’ve dealt with this for years and I’ll deal with the fallout now. It’s Cheryl who matters. We need to find her.”
“So, we call the police now,” he said. “I have a good friend there. A detective. In a bit,