"Can you go any faster?" Kevin leaned forward in the seat, as if the weight of his body would somehow propel the cab faster through the traffic.
"Not if you want to make it there alive," the driver muttered. Kevin Buchanan was a regular. Rumor had it that his driver quit a few months ago after months of late night phone calls and verbal lashings. He wasn't accustomed to cabbies and he clearly resented being lumped in with the rest of society. He heard him sigh and fall back against the seat. One look in the rearview mirror told him the whole story. You can wash your face and change your clothes, but hungover is hungover even cleaned up and dusted off.
"Just hurry," Kevin barked, his voice harsh at first. He took a breath, lowering his shoulders and feeling his throat tighten with regret, "Please," he whispered.
"Mrs Buchanan, there's a detective here to talk to you. Are you up to answering a few questions?" The nurse turned towards the door, motioning for the female detective to walk inside.
"Just buzz if you need anything," she said quietly, walking from the room.
"Mrs. Buchanan," the detective said, her voice soft and calm as she slid the small stool towards the side of the bed. "My name is Detective Finley and I need to ask you some questions about what happened last night."
She looked over at Kelly, her eyes were fixed on the clock on the wall. She had yet to make eye contact or acknowledge her existence. "Can you do that?" she asked softly.
Kelly nodded, finally forcing herself to look into the woman's eyes. There it was-what she feared-the look of pity. This was the look she'd been avoiding for months. This was why she didn't say anything about the problems in her marriage, about Kevin's drinking, about the trouble with the business, about any of it. She hated the lies, the drinking, the stress, but more than any of it, she hated the idea of being pitied...and now she was...and there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it.
"Can you tell me why you were at the Timbers last night?"
The mere mention of the name seemed to transport her back there and she was walking through the door again. The smell of the smoke-so thick it had almost taken her breath-and the noise, a mix of typical bar tunes and raucous laughter mixed with shouting filled the air. She remembered struggling through the crowds of sloppy drunk men to reach the bar, where she'd leaned towards the bartender. "Already gone," he'd yelled, struggling to be heard above the noise. "About a half hour ago...should be getting home soon."
She'd nodded, and turned.
"Mrs, Buchanan," Detective Finley softly said again, her eyes studying Kelly's face. No matter how many times she had this conversation, she never got used to the way the women reacted. So many of them, regardless of their individual circumstances, were trapped...trapped in their experience...trapped in their own nightmare. Some repeated the events with ease, almost robotic, as if they'd left their emotions somewhere else. Others fell apart, unable to think about the horror they'd endured, and still others seemed to drift somewhere in between the two. That place where even they weren't sure what happened and so it was difficult to tell someone else. This seemed to be where Kelly was.
"I'm sorry," Kelly repeated, turning to look at the detective again. "I was just...thinking."
Detective Finley nodded, patting her arm softly. "It's fine. We don't have to do this now if you're not feeling up to it. I can come back." She moved to stand.
"No," Kelly said, her voice forceful and emotional for the first time since she'd started speaking to the detective. "I can do this. I want to do this." She took a breath. "I came to the Timbers to look for my husband. He wasn't home and I thought..." She shook her head..."I knew that was where he would be."
She nodded, making brief notes in the pad she held in her hands, "And was your husband there?"
Kelly let out a shaky breath. "No...The bartender said he'd already...that he would probably be home soon."
"And then you left?"
"I started to," Kelly began, closing her eye, trying to stop the memories that tried to flood back. She didn't want to see the face-she never wanted to see that face again and yet she feared she would...every time she closed her eyes.