Chapter Four

Back at the hotel, Stephen tried to assist the forensic team as best he could as they painstakingly sorted through the suite. Between the Dior gown and the patches of carpet, they were confident they had enough evidence to find a DNA match if the suspect was in the system, so they rushed the items back to their crime lab for DNA and fiber analysis.

After the doctor concluded the exam, bloodwork, and medication, Miranda was able to shower. Not surprisingly, she refused to return to the Beverly Hilton, so Andy arranged for a suite at the nearby Fairmont (with two bedrooms), and waited with her until Stephen could get there.

"Miranda," the detective said, taking her hands gently, "this was not your fault. You know that, right?"

Miranda shook her head. "It—it…if I hadn't had all that champagne, or if I waited for Stephen to pick me up, or if I hadn't been wearing that dress, maybe I could have—"

"Stop right there," Andy said, cutting her off. "You are not to blame for wearing a beautiful dress or having a few drinks at a party. That does not give someone the right to violate you. No one ever has the right to touch you—or do anything to you—without your permission. Do you understand that?"

Miranda shrugged.

"What he did to you was wrong. He forced you to do something you didn't want to do. Look at me," she said, gently tilting Miranda's chin up. "Repeat after me: This was not my fault." When Miranda rolled her eyes, Andrea squeezed her hand tighter. "I'm serious, look at me and repeat. This was not my fault."

"This was not my fault," Miranda said quietly.

"I am strong." Andrea paused for a second. "Repeat. I am strong."

"I am strong."

"I am beautiful."

"I am beautiful," Miranda repeated with tears in her eyes.

"No one has the right to touch me."

Miranda chuckled. "No one has the right to touch me," she said. She couldn't help but think of Runway and how Emily explains that very concept to every new hire on the floor.

"Miranda, it's the truth," Andy said.

"You just made me think of my assistant at work," Miranda explained. "She is tasked with training all of our new hires, and one of the first things she tells them is 'You do not, under any circumstances, touch Miranda,'" she said, mocking Emily's British accent.

"Well," Andy smiled, "she's right." She tried to imagine just what kind of thing Miranda did for a living if her assistant told people that on their first day.

"I know," she said. "I do, really. I just need to convince myself to believe it."

Andy looked up into the woman's eyes, and before she could say anything else, there was a light knock on the door and the sound of a keycard.

Miranda held her breath. Andy moved her hand to her hip, her fingertips dancing along her holster.

"Hi, it's just me," Stephen said, poking his head through the door. The women took a deep breath, obviously relieved that it wasn't an intruder. "I brought some of our stuff," he added once he set their bags down. He had known Miranda long enough to know that she despised questions with obvious answers, so he took a minute to think before he spoke again. "Were you injured badly?"

Miranda looked down at her hands in her lap and shook her head. She tugged her sleeves down to cover the bruises that were now purpling on her wrists. "No. The doctor said it will heal on its own…eventually," she said.

Andy took this as her cue to leave. "Well, Miranda, I should probably get going so you can have something to eat and hopefully get some rest. I know it's been a long night," she said. Her own stomach was growling since she'd gone the past twelve hours without so much as a french fry.

Miranda's eyes widened and she approached the young woman. Amidst everything, it hadn't occurred to her that she would be getting on a plane and traveling three thousand miles across the continent later that day. She rather uncharacteristically threw her arms around Andy's shoulders and hugged her. The young woman eagerly returned the embrace.

"Take care of yourself, Miranda," Andy said. "I've already given you my card—please, call me if you think of anything else that can help us, or even if you just need to talk. I promise I will always answer—unless it's Wednesday night when I'm coaching my niece's softball team," she added with a smile. "I really think it will help to talk to a counselor or even just attend a support group when you get back to New York. It will seem too easy to just get back to your life as if nothing happened, but this will never disappear. Trust me, I know."

Miranda pulled back and looked into the young woman's eyes, which were suddenly clouded with an emotion she couldn't quite pinpoint. "Andrea," Miranda said, "thank you for everything."

"Of course," she said, stepping away towards the door. She nodded to Stephen. "Have a safe flight back to New York." When she shut the door behind her, something inside told her this was not goodbye.

"Miranda," Stephen said. She had been staring blankly at the back of the door for several minutes. "Miranda," he repeated, walking around her and standing in her line of vision.

She blinked a few times, then crawled back onto the bed and curled up against the pillow.

"Honey, what can I get you to eat?" Stephen asked. "Would you like eggs? A steak? Cheesecake with raspberries? I know that's your favorite."

"I'm not hungry," she said. "Look, I'm sorry. I just don't feel like— I'm sorry."

"Please don't apologize, Miranda. I'm the one who should be apologizing. I don't know what I can do to make it better."

"Just get me home. We've already missed our flight."

"I can do that," he said. He turned to walk out of the room, but quickly returned, pressing a feather-light kiss to her forehead before heading back to the sitting area.

TBC