Stocks & Blondes
14
Humiliated
I AM BRUISED, sick, and utterly humiliated. I’ll never be able to rent a car again. And my cover may be blown. How could it get so bad?
What am I doing up at this hour, sitting in a dead woman’s home, crying my eyes out, and throwing up every ten minutes? God, I wish I knew. I can’t think straight; I can’t even see straight. And I think someone is in the house. I’ve locked myself in the kitchen office and am throwing up in a wastebasket. Here’s what I remember. I need to write this down. My head is so fuzzy.
Drugged
I went to that bar at about nine o’clock Saturday night. Susan and Rick introduced me all around to several people and everyone wanted to talk about Georgia and what they remembered. Mostly, it was pretty sweet and sort of a wake. All I had to drink was tonic. I know I didn’t drink anything else. I’d know, wouldn’t I?
This one guy—Dean?—kept getting closer and closer to me and he was all, “Oh, too bad about your cousin. We all loved her. We went out some.” Dude, back off. I’m not interested.
Then about eleven??? Maybe earlier. I started to feel a little sick. I went to the bathroom and didn’t recognize myself. I thought, My God! My mother is here. That’s when I threw up the first time and I thought, great, I’m sick. How could I get sick so fast? I had to grab my coat from the table and I left the bar. This guy—Deon??—wanted to drive me home. No way. Not interested. I got in my car and pulled out of the parking lot, wanting to get away from there as fast as I could. Apparently, that was too fast. I forgot to turn the headlights on. I wasn’t half a block away when a cop car pulled me over. I had trouble finding my ID, I finally gave it to him with my rental agreement.
He made me get out of the car. Walk this line. I could barely see the line he pointed at. It’s fucking January and there’s three inches of snow on the ground that the stupid city hasn’t figured out how to remove from the streets. And it’s freezing-your-ass-off weather. He’s making me stand there freezing and shaking while he shines a light in my eyes and asks how much I had to drink. I didn’t have anything to drink, stupid. I’m feeling a little sick. Can I please sit down? He says stay where I am. He gets a kit out of his car and says, blow into this. You have the right not to, but we’ll have to do blood tests then. I’m shaking so much and shivering that I can’t get a big enough lungful of air to satisfy the cop. I just want to go home and be sick. Where am I staying. Almost gave him my address. Said no, with my cousin. She’s dead.
He pulled me around against the car and cuffed me! He pushed me into the back seat of his patrol car and took me to the police station. I threw up in the back of his car. And on myself. My hands were behind my back. He dragged me into a cell and said to sober up.
Then another cop, plainclothes, comes to see me. You Peg Chester? I almost said no. Yes. I am Peg Chester. He says I’ve been cited for DUI but since I couldn’t do a breath test, they wanted a blood test. Consent? Yeah, sure. Just let me go home.
They take the blood and Cop A, B, or C—oh, shit! I didn’t even get the names of the cops who arrested me. He says I’m lucky to have friends and he’s come to take me home. He who? What friends? He points me at this guy—Devon?—who takes my arm and gets me out of the police station. I’m trying to say no. Something’s wrong. I’m so disoriented. He drives me here to Georgia’s house and comes in with me to put me to bed. No way! He can’t see me like this. I pushed him away and ran to the office, slammed the door, and locked it. I moved all the furniture in the little room against the door and he can’t get in. He’s out there. I can hear him going through kitchen drawers.
I should call 911, but I just got out of jail. Did they fingerprint me? Oh, no! If they did, they’ll match prints to my real identity. They’re on file with my detective’s license. I need a doctor. EMTs wouldn’t even get in because he’s out there. No one would believe me.
I should call Lars. But it’s after three in the morning. Cinnamon? I look at the computer screen and see big letters: Call Lars.
Throw up, cry, listen. Is he gone?
I can’t call right now. He could attack whoever I called. Lars will know what to do. I’ll call Lars. As soon as I rest a little.
Allergies
I was back. I felt better. A little. I called Lars around six. He said to stay where I was and not to pee. I had no idea what he was talking about, but an hour later, Cinnamon was pounding on the door. I couldn’t figure out how I’d gotten into this little room with all the crap piled against the door. It took me forever to get the door open. I must have looked a mess. I wondered why she was there and then Lars examined my face and determined I didn’t have any telltale signs of being someone other than who I appeared to be. They got me into his car and he drove me to my doctor. I could have told him she wouldn’t be at her office, but she was. It was Sunday morning and no one else was around.
She pulled out a rape kit.
Oh, my God! What happened? I was so panicked, I hyperventilated and passed out. She ran preliminary tests and insisted that Lars take me to the hospital. She met us there and we did everything over again. They took samples of the puke on my coat, my urine, my blood. Dr. Joan was there the whole time and guarded me from everyone else. They must have thought things were pretty strange that a doctor would stay with her patient waiting for the test results and not let a nurse near me. Preliminary results got back a little after noon.
I was drugged.
That wonderful, friendly little wake for Georgia last night wasn’t what it appeared to be. That guy—Delyn??—must have slipped something into my tonic.
Dr. Joan says I’m lucky. She has a list of my drug allergies a mile long. We added GBH. If I hadn’t had such a strong reaction to it and been throwing up so much, I’d probably still be passed out and would have gone home with him. Trying to drive may have saved me from getting raped, even though I was so humiliated, I couldn’t even look at Cinnamon. She’d been right there ever since I came out of the kitchen office. And she was still here. Said she wasn’t leaving tonight, no matter what.
I don’t remember much from last night. Habits paid off. I started writing as soon as I locked myself in the office, and though a bit incoherent, it’s the full story as I was living through it.
Here’s what’s for sure. Now that I know Georgia’s friend—or friends—tried to drug and rape me, I’m convinced that her death wasn’t self-inflicted. I am going to stay here, and I am going to nail their collective asses.
Comments
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