Christmas has come and gone, fading into New Year's and continuing on into early January. Margaret's been talking to Tom about adopting us, while Tom informs us daily about developments about the case. Because Mitchie is a minor, it seems as though any accusation of any sort of abuse (including rape) is enough to pull the guy in for questioning. Rodney has been in police custody since last night when the Washington State Police arrested him on charges of rape. While Mitchie, Margaret, and I wanted to have a party, Tom told us not to get too excited. It will be incredibly hard to prove that Mitchie was in fact raped since it happened a year ago and there's no evidence anymore. I try not to think about that, because I know it will just make me destroy something, anything.

"They've got Rodney in the police station, but they can't make any promises," Tom says when we enter his office bright and early this morning. "He's denied all the accusations, of course."

"So what!" My voice raises just a little bit, but I manage to keep it mostly under control.

He avoids looking at me and does something on the computer. "It becomes a case of he said, she said. There is no way to prove that Mitchie is more right than Rodney is, even though I believe her story."

Angrily, I snap at him, "How is that fair? How can you just let little perverts like that run free?"

"I don't like that thought any more than you do, but think about it: if, in a country as big as ours, we arrested every person who was accused of something, it would be chaos. You could accuse your adulterous husband of murder just to spite him even if he did nothing wrong. That's why we need proof."

"What about how she was mute for a year?" Margaret asks. We told her our entire story during the week between Christmas and New Year's in hopes that she might be able to help with the trial a little more. At least, that was my main motivation. Mitchie wanted to get to know her better, wanted her to know us better. Of course I want to be friends with her and all, but I don't know... I still don't know how to share my feelings without nearly breaking down. Having Max's necklace has given me some form of closure, but I think I'll have to wait until the trial to fully understand all of this.

Tom shakes his head. "They won't care. That can easily be spun by the defense to be a result of the compound as a whole and not stemming from one specific incident. What we really need is one of the Shepherds from Havenwood to say something. I highly doubt that they'll say anything outright but with enough pressure, the authorities might be able to get them to crack."

"Go for Todd," I tell him instantly.

"What?"

"The Shepherds. One of them is named Todd, and he's got about the willpower of three-year-old. He should tell you fairly easily." My mind swarms with possibilities of meeting the Shepherds in the courtroom. I don't know much about the American judicial system, but I keep seeing flashes of them all being taken away by police officers and thrown behind jail bars for the rest of their lives (Margaret showed me pictures): the Mother, the Father, the Shepherds, Todd, my parents, Damien, Rosslyn, Justin... Justin. Instantly, things are clear. "Tom, what if someone saw my brother get shot?"

He doesn't really get this statement judging by his furrowed brows, but it's enough to make him look up from his computer. "What do you mean, 'saw him get shot?' Didn't you see him get shot?"

"Yeah, but what if the person was standing near the shooter?" My voice turns alive with the idea of my brother getting the punishment he deserves for his hand in Max's death. "What if they could have stopped the shot?"

Tom smiles at me. "Maybe you should be a lawyer, Alex. That's a good thought. Depending on the circumstances surrounding the shooting, they might be able to be charged as an accessory. Who do you have in mind?"

"My brother Justin."

Tom's already dialing the phone as he says to me, "I think you need to go to the police station."

Twenty short minutes later, Margaret, Mitchie, and I arrive at the police station. Tom has to stay and work, leaving us in Margaret's care. We've been here a handful of times before in the past week to report the rape and leave a couple of statements about Havenwood in general. Detective Porter is in charge of the whole investigation and told us just to come up to the front desk whenever we need her help.

Today, though, she finds us as she's walking through the main lobby, coffee cup and manila folder in hand. "Alex, Mitchie. How are you girls doing today?"

I shrug and Mitchie just smiles. "We're doing alright, I guess. We came here to give a testimony, actually."

Detective Porter's interest is instantly piqued by the new information we're promising. "Oh?"

I try to go on, but I falter slightly and look to Mitchie. She weaves her fingers with mine and says the words that hurt too much for me. The anger, the bravery I felt with Tom is gone now in the face of this stranger, in this cold environment. "We want to talk about Max's death. We think... we might have a way to find out who s-shot him."

"I'll take you into my office, girls," Detective Porter says, trying to hide the excitement she feels at coming one step closer to catching the bad guy.

Margaret puts her hand on my arm to stop us for just a moment. "I'll wait out here for you guys, OK? I think this is something y'all should do for yourselves."

"Thanks, Margaret," Mitchie whispers. But I can see behind her eyes that she's terrified. This is the first time we'll be reliving that horrible ordeal aloud since it happened. Even with Margaret we didn't go into details because we both threatened. Now, though, we have to be strong. There is no room for weakness in this police station, not if we want Justin to help us. Not if we want to punish whichever sick bastard that killed my brother and ruined everything he could be.

Stepping into Porter's office, I feel my chest constricting and the weight of the information I hold pressing down upon my small frame and trapping me in that one memory, looping continuously in my head. "Sit down, please," she offers, gesturing to two chairs. I sit, but the flashes don't stop. Every time I close my eyes to blink, I see red. Justin. Max. Rosslyn. Damien. Gun. That night. "So what is it you girls know?"

"Damien shot him," I blurt out, not able to keep that in any longer. I don't know if Mitchie recognized Damien's partially hidden sneer that night, but I've never asked. Who killed Max has never seemed nearly as important as the simple fact that he is dead, especially because I've been blaming Justin for the entire incident all this time. I've never admitted out loud that it's Damien's fault, Damien whose hands Max's blood is on.

"The Enforcer Damien?" Porter asks, and I can tell by Mitchie's face that she has just found out from my words that it was Damien. I should have known from the beginning that no good would ever come of my relationship with that man.

"Yeah. I saw him point the gun at Max," I tell her, my voice cracking.

Porter stares at me, her eyes boring deeply into my own so much that it's scary. "Listen to me, Alex. Murder is taken as a very serious accusation here. I know the history you have with this particular Enforcer, and I want to make sure that you're not doing it just as an act of revenge."

My eyes fix themselves her on hers, my stare equally as cold and intense as her own. "Let me make this clear to you: there is no reason behind this accusation other than he was the one I saw holding the gun. I would never lie, because avenging Max's death is much higher on my list than getting retribution for any wrongs done to me. Is that understood?"

"Of course." Porter appears to respect me for this statement as she backs off and assumes a more neutral tone. "Now. We're going to need a description of the murder eventually- you don't have to right now."

"I want to talk about Justin," Mitchie says, clearly aggravated just by saying the name.

"What about him?"

She sighs, and I finally get to see her truly upset. It's almost frightening to see the anger behind her eyes, probably because I have no idea how to handle that. "He started this. He alerted the Enforcers, he led them to the woods where we were, he stood by as they shot his brother!" She's furious now, but not like when I get furious. Her breathing has increased like mad, her entire body tensing, though she shows no signs of turning violent as I would have in this situation. It's weird for me to be the putting a hand on her arm to calm her down, rubbing her back to soothe her. Usually it's opposite.

"And you want to get him charged as an accessory?"

"Him or someone else," Mitchie mutters through gritted teeth.

"Well, I'll see what I can do," Porter assures us, standing up. "When you say Justin, do you mean your brother Justin?"

I nod, steadfast and stoic. "Yes. That's the one."

She jots this down and then extends her hand to us. Mitchie and I take this as a sign to get up and get gone. We both shake her hand before Mitchie says in a very heartfelt voice, "Thank you, Detective Porter. You have no idea how much this means to us."

"I can't possibly imagine, and I almost don't want to," she tells us in her very stern voice. That's probably a good assessment of our situation.

Just then, a knock comes on the door. Another officer I vaguely recognize from questioning the other day enters the room and gives a gruff nod at myself and Mitchie before addressing Porter. "Detective Porter, ma'am, Rodney Pritcham has just arrived here from Washington. He's in our custody right now."

Porter gives a curt nod as all the color drains out of Mitchie's face and she falters a little, taking a shaky step backward, a preamble to a fall. I catch her and put her upright. Just from having my hand on her back, I can feel the shallowness of her breathing, the rapid beats of air moving through her body. "Thank you, officer. I just have to-"

"Can I talk to him?" Mitchie's voice never wavers as the words hang in the air, a silence that is just waiting to be broken.

Eying her, Porter finally caves. "I suppose. We'd have to watch the whole conversation, though, and have a guard on the inside to keep him in line. You wouldn't have a private chat, we'd have to pull you out if things got too heated. Do you understand?"

She nods, more determined than I've ever seen her. "Yes. I still want to see him."

Porter whistles through her teeth. "You've got a helluva lotta nerve, kid."

"Alex has rubbed off on me," Mitchie replies, letting a small smirk take over her features. But only for a second.

"Speaking of Alex," Porter begins, "do you mind going with Joe here to take pictures of your scars for evidence? Then you can join us with Mr. Pritcham." I take a glance at Mitchie, who doesn't acknowledge me. She's off in her own little world, drawing upon whatever source of faith seems to inspire her. I still manage to marvel the faith she seems to find in all situations, the knowledge she has that everything will be alright.

With no cues from her, I'm forced to nod and pray that she can handle Rodney. Though with the look she has on her face right now, most doubts fly from my mind. "Alright. Show me the way, Joe."

Joe does not talk. Like, at all. He doesn't say a word on the way down there, instructs me to lift my shirt enough to get the shots, and then shows me to the room where Mitchie is with Rodney all in a little under 10 minutes. This guy is super efficient, which is good because I'm rushing back to get to Mitchie, to hope that she's still standing.

And she is. Standing, screaming, shouting while Rodney sits back and watches without a hint of remorse on his evil face. I am not prepared for the emotional upheaval that is seeing this fucking asshole's face. Joe seems to sense the rage welling inside of me because he takes a strong, firm grip on my arm and says, "Don't do anything stupid. Just watch."

My fingernails dig into the palms of my hand, probably leaving marks, as I look upon the heated scene unfolding in front of me.

"-and you think you can just get away with it!" Mitchie is screaming so loudly that I can hear her without the intercom system, which Margaret explained to me the other day.

Rodney leans back in his chair, totally nonchalant, and strokes the stubble of his beard. That bastard! I just want to- but instead of thinking about what I want to do, I just dig my fingernails in a little more and grind my teeth together. And listen. "I can get away with anything I want, honey. But with you, there ain't nothing to get away with."

Small fists slam on the table in front of her and a strong voice erupts from her throat. "Is that what you think? Fine! You can go straight to hell for all I care, but you'll never erase what you did! Deny it all you want, but it will still be there! I'll still remember!"

The chair pushes forward, moving him toward the table again, his voice a whisper. "What will you still remember, Mitchie? Because honestly, my life has been pretty forgettable up to this point. Now..." A break in the speech, a sick smile crawling its way onto the guilty man's face. "Things are starting to get interesting."

"Oh, so raping me wasn't interesting!" Her voice grows with each word, the anger and the pain and the intensity all stepping up.

Miles of smiles slip and slide over his ever-changing expression as he tries to get under her skin without giving himself up. "Now, now, that sounds like it might be interesting. Too bad I never had the chance to." The guard sends warning glances to him, but he doesn't falter. "What a sad, sad story."

"Yours will be, once I get your ass thrown in jail." I've never heard her curse before. Ever. Thank God she picks now to become a total bitch like me.

His hands slide from the edges of the chair, pushing him to a standing position. "Guard, I don't want to talk to this slimy girl anymore. She's making me uneasy." That fucking bastard! Self-control leaves me as I pound my fists violently into the wall, imaging its his head. Joe instantly grabs me, throwing me into the position I've seen the police use to handcuff others.

"Keep that up, missy, and I'll have to throw you in jail for destruction of property," he mutters angrily. I only snarl in response, pressing my teeth together so hard I think they might crack. But I watch the drama in front of me finish in a final blaze of glory.

"You know what, Rodney? Fuck you."

He gets up, heading for the door in handcuffs. "Big words from such a tiny girl."

But she's smiling. Smiling. I can't begin to imagine why. "When you raped me, Rodney, you thought it would control me for my entire life. You thought I'd never overcome it, be mute forever. Well look at me now. I escaped from the very lifestyle you were trying to force me to succumb to, I caused a court case that could easily shut down the entire system, I got you pulled in for questioning, and I fell in love, the one thing that you never wanted for me!"

He can't keep the surprise, the near hurt, from his face. There's something about the last part that makes him writhe, like he's jealous she's moved on. Jealous. As if he ever had a chance in hell. "And who's the lucky fellow?"

A smirk of deadly sting finds its way onto her face. "Her name is Alex."

"Well, fucking hell. Have a nice time in your twisted, sick-as-fuck relationship. Have fun roasting in Hell." But his face is contorted, in pain. Score for Mitchie.

"I look forward to seeing you there."

In an animalistic rage, he shrieks at Mitchie, the guard clamps hard on his arms, and she stares directly into his eyes.

And she says, "Just look at me now."