October 17, 2006
He uses his soft voice with Parker and he hopes that Veronica, sitting in the background, notices. This was the voice he should have used two years ago when she came into the department in a torn white dress with mascara running down her face.
He's been thinking about her too much lately, every time he hears about another on campus rape he worries that it's her this time. He knows that he'd do better this time, wouldn't let her down.
She had only been sixteen that morning in his office, a child. Somehow, over the two years previous, he'd forgotten how young she was. He'd forgotten that she still needed to be protected. He had become so use to trading barbs with her and her 09er buddies, to busting up their parties and being spat on, that it was sometimes difficult to remember that they were only children: cruel, jaded children, but children nonetheless.
After she had left that morning, he'd spent a half hour in the washroom dry heaving. Not for the first time, he wished that Keith was still Sheriff. But he also realized that it was him that Veronica had come to that morning, and not Keith. She could have gone to her parents, could have gone to the hospital, but instead she came straight to the Sherriff's department. To him because maybe, he let himself think, she still trusted him a little, despite her years of adolescent rebellion. But whatever trust had remained between them vanished the moment he dismissed her claim. Since then, their exchanges had only become more bitter, more cruel, and Don's not sure he knows any other way to speak with her now.
So this morning, when he sees Veronica in the raped girl's room, he has no way to respond but with malicious words, words he knows will hurt her. He's glad to see the hate and disgust on her face, as well as the pain that flashed quickly and then vanished. At least this way he knows he can still make her feel something.