Disclaimer: Not mine.

A/N: Please review this chapter in particular, because I wasn't sure how well I did Sara's part... I think the feeling is right, but the action worries me. I re-read it about ten times before posting so...


Chapter 21: March 1993

Jack Murphy

A year passed almost without my knowing it. I had a few dates, a few lovers, but nothing noteworthy. They passed the time for me, and I suspect I did the same for them. The lab had moved up in rankings—we were one of the top one hundred labs in the country, and it was only getting better. Ecklie had moved to day shift, and I rarely saw him. Amber turned ten in a month, and I was planning a week-long trip to see her in April. Mark had come and gone, and I was feeling good about that. Not that I wanted Laura to be sad, but it reassured me that I was the only real father figure in Amber's life. She called me 'dad' now, instead of daddy, and called me about once a week to let me know about her life, her friends, school. She was so smart, and I beamed with pride at the beautiful little girl she had grown into, not choosing to consider how small a role I had really played.

I had been to see her half a dozen times since Laura had gotten married, but they'd never come to Vegas. I was still working to convince them on that one…

Laura was dating a new guy, who sounded a little shady. She wasn't really sure what his job was, even after they'd dated for a month, and she hadn't been inside his home after two months. When Amber told me he spent the night sometimes, I worried. I told her that, on nights when 'Jack' stayed over, she should stay awake after Mommy tucked her in and said goodnight, and go lock her bedroom door. I told her to keep a cordless phone in her room at all times, and went over how to call 911 and what times such a thing would be appropriate, like if Mommy was screaming, or if Jack was trying to get into her room and he sounded scary or angry.

I told her that if she ever wasn't sure, or if she was scared even if he hadn't done anything, she should call me—I would always answer for her. I stressed over it chaotically, wondering what Laura had been thinking in the first place. But she had seemed strange in the last several phone calls—like she was detached, depressed. She didn't seem to know that Amber had a science fair coming up. I mailed Amber the ingredients for a volcano, and stayed on the phone with her while she built it. I would have preferred she do Argentinean Fire Ants—they always beat volcanoes—but Laura would probably have thrown them out, if she found them. Even if they were for the science fair.

If I had had any legal claim on Amber, I would have flown to Boston and taken her back to Vegas with me in a heartbeat. They could come after me, take me to court; I wasn't going to risk her safety. But that was foolishness. I didn't have a leg to stand on—what good was I to Amber if she couldn't even call me, because I was in prison for kidnapping?

But when Laura let his last name slip out, I scrambled for a piece of paper and scribbled it down, urgently. I checked his criminal record at work, discreetly, of course—several misdemeanors, one felony…for cocaine possession. He'd done a few years in jail. He had several reports of domestic violence that had later been rescinded. My heart ached.

But I would be there in a month, and I could see how things really were. Maybe I could set the man straight—make sure he understood that to lay a hand on either Laura or Amber was signing his own death warrant. Anything to make me feel more secure about their living situation.

I wanted to send Amber pepper spray, but I was afraid she'd hurt herself playing with it. It scared me, and I toyed with my indecision.

That little girl was the most important thing in my whole world, and I feel useless and helpless and inadequate, because I couldn't protect her.


Ken Fuller

I got lazy, the summer of 1992, and decided I wasn't going to take the last class I needed for my chem. major in summer school. I had been accepted to grad school at Harvard, for psychics, and it just felt like an unnecessary extra. In the future, if I decided I wanted the degree, all I had to do was take a three credit class. I was sure I could handle that. I thought that maybe I'd like to teach psychics, in high school or to undergraduates. I had a home in Boston, and there were more colleges here than I could count. I could probably get hired at one of them, easily.

Despite all this, I still had extra time on my hands, especially without my literature classes. I started hanging out with some of the girls Kelly was friends with, and found that we got along really well. And several of them were chemistry majors, which surprised me. The more we talked, the more they realized how many classes we'd shared together and never spoken in—they started inviting Kelly and I to hang out with people in the department— parties and going out to eat and days spent doing nothing.

Ken Fuller was getting his masters in Chemistry, and he was an Organic Chemistry T.A. for undergraduates. He was quite the stud among the people I'd started to hang out with—besides being crazy gifted in Chemistry, he had been a big football player his last year as an undergrad, and had even been recruited—the NFL had wanted to draft him, but he said football was a hobby. He was a scientist.

He was an arrogant scientist. He was still muscled from his days as a starter, and was dashingly handsome in an obvious way—he could have been on magazine covers. Even being in the science department, he was a BMoC—Big man on Campus—which seemed to mean he was the only ideal mate available for any of the girls I now hung out with. I wasn't so stirred.

We were physically attracted to each other—any proximity between us was heat-filled and tense. But I found him cocky and hard to be around for any period of time. He would make bold proclamations about his subject of expertise—whether it be new developments, old theories, or just philosophical speculation on the chemical nature of the world in which we lived. I always argued; he was an idiot. And he didn't like that I could hold my own in an argument against him—that I didn't back down, and that I knew as much as he did, sometimes more. I had hardly had a life for a year before I entered the group—any newly published discoveries in either chemistry or psychics I had committed to memory. I read when I can't sleep, and the nightmares had been frequent.

I don't think he liked that I wasn't interested in him either. He had hit on me, a few times, and though we both knew there was a basic, real sexual connection between us, I was repelled by him in any way other than physically. I spurned his advances. He was plain with me.

"Look, you don't really like me, and I don't really like you. I get it." His hazel eyes burned into mine, and I feel their heat trailing down my spine. "But from the moment we met, we've wanted each other. I'm not saying I want a relationship, I'm saying that… that with as much tension as there is, and as angry as we make each other… sex between us could be phenomenal." I roll my eyes, though I feel the pressure building below my belly button. He grins. "Just think about it."

I did. All the fucking time. I found my nightmares replaced by sex dreams—angry, rough, sex dreams… but god they were hot.

And then Kelly made the suggestion that we do Spring Break in Miami.

I had never done a Spring Break, and she was moving from Boston at the end of this year. It'd be our last year together—our last chance to really party. I felt like maybe I hadn't done enough of that, for a college student. So we talked to the group, made the arrangements, and I was excited. I'd never been really drunk in my life, and I felt like it would be a good parting present for Kelly—she was always complaining that I didn't keep up with her. Chances were that I probably still wouldn't keep up, but I was willing to let myself get tipsy. It would be fun.

Somehow, I ended up between Kelly and Ken on the plane. The seats were small, and Ken kept brushing his thigh against mine and claiming it was an accident. It was irritating, but I would have been able to ignore it if it hadn't been sending tingles through my body every time it happened.

Tyler's body had been average for a teenage boy—he wasn't super muscular, but he had a slender frame and broad shoulders. Michael had had muscles, impressive muscles, but nothing like Ken—Ken looked every inch the football player he had recently been—and I found myself wondering what it would feel like, to be pressed under that phenomenal body.

He seemed to notice my responses to him—the flush in my cheeks, the trembling in my hands, my dry mouth—I had to keep swallowing and licking my lips. I got up to go to the bathroom, to get away from him, to calm myself down. After washing my hands, I was irritated to hear a gentle knocking on the door. "One minute." I called through the door, taking a deep breath and then sliding the handle open. It was Ken, and he did not even give me a moment to speak—he pushed his way inside the bathroom and locked the door behind him, with burning eyes.

I was surprised, about to get mad at him, yell at him to get out, or to let me leave, when he grabbed my hips and pulled me hard against him, his lips capturing my ear lobe, his hips grinding against me. And all the build-up, all the tension between us, ripped through my body and I lost all my conviction to say no. It took only seconds to slide my jeans down, off my body, and he kept his on, just pushed down around his knees. I pushed myself up on the counter, and he pushed my underwear aside, pushing into me—I was already ridiculously ready for him.

The pressure, how he filled me—it was amazing, even if it was only because I hadn't been with a man for a year and a half. And I was still angry with him for barging in, and I rocked against him, taking out that anger. He groaned hard against me and lifted my shirt, so he could bury his face in my chest while his hands rocked me hard against him. It was rough… and angry… but after the initial penetration, it went downhill.

He wasn't very good at this. His rhythm was unsteady, and did very little for me, which he didn't seem to mind. His mouth on my breasts was not sensual or even roughly arousing—he didn't play with the nipples—he didn't give a thought to my pleasure at all. After a moment of biting, he just left his face buried there, rocking me hard against him in his irregular thrusts. I was trying to stop thinking so much—to get into it—but I couldn't build myself anywhere close to an orgasm, and he came inside me without a thought to how close I might be. I was more relieved than anything, though disappointment might have been second on that list.

He slid out of me, without a word, slipping the condom off and flushing it in the toilet, pulled his pants back up and left. Without a word. I felt disgusting—I had thought that I was attracted to him, physically, at least, but now just the thought of him was gross. I was unsatisfied and frustrated and ashamed of myself. At least he'd used a condom. Ugh.

I cleaned myself up, and went back to the seat. He kept giving me looks, like he thought we were going to share some secret smile about our tryst. I rolled my eyes at him and turned to Kelly, choosing not to speak to him for the rest of the flight.

We had rented a condo for the week—it was expensive, but everyone had pitched it. It meant that there would be a lot of bed-sharing and sleeping on the floor and the couches, but it was a gorgeous place—we had a private pool and walk-down access to the beach. Kelly and I went grocery shopping, with a 50 from each of the 10 other people who had come, and some of the guys had gone to pick up the alcohol, with the other 50 from each of us 12.

It would have been a lot of fun, except for Ken. After a couple of beers, he was becoming crude.

"Hey, Sara, why don't you come sit on my lap, baby?" He asked, when Kelly and I entered the living room after putting away the groceries. I raised an eyebrow.

"Uh, no thanks." I twisted open my beer and took a drink, but choked on it as his next words slipped out.

"You must still be exhausted from the plane."

Kelly turns and looks at me, and I feel my face turning red—not from everyone knowing I'd had sex on a plane, but that it had been with this asshole. But of course, I play it off, rolling my eyes and taking another drink from my beer.

"Mmm, I would have had to be with a man who knew what he was doing to be exhausted…"

There's a chorus of deep "Ooo's" from the rest of the guys as they turn to look at him. He's angry.

"Fuck you, Sara. You were begging to have me."

My eyes flash, and I lose my temper. It hasn't happened very often since I moved to Boston, so Kelly stares at me in shock as I go off on him.

"Begging?! Really, who was the creep who kept trying to grope me in my seat? Who forced his way into my bathroom stall? Yeah, I had sex with you, because I thought—'Shit, he's this buff football star, sex on a plane would be hot, even if he is an arrogant asshole.' But I didn't beg you, I reluctantly accepted your desperate advances, and was sorely disappointed. But, since all the women in the world, and especially in this room, seem to think you're god's gift to the vagina, let me just clarify something for you—for the sake of your next victim: It's called the clitoris, and you don't just get to ignore it. And try to keep some sort of rhythm; you're not bobbing for apples or at home with your hand."

He's angry too, and embarrassed, but I can't bring myself to care.

"You're just a fucking prude—you couldn't come if you were with a porn star. It's not my fault that you're sexually repressed and—"

I'm having none of that. "Really? You think so? Because I'm pretty sure I had my first orgasm at the age of 15, not even having sex, at the hands of a virgin. But yeah, call that sexual repression. Maybe if you'd been able to last a whole two minutes, you'd have had a chance… but probably not. …I'll see you guys later."

I storm out of the condo, leaving, I'm sure, a path of destruction in my wake. Kelly runs after me, and we walk down the beach in silence for a while. Then she giggles, and I turn my glaring eyes to her in indignation, but she laughs harder.

"You just told a crowded room that you joined the mile high club with someone you hate… who sucked in bed…" she giggles harder, and spills some of her beer. "Come on, you have to admit that's funny."

And then I'm laughing too, and we fall over on the sand, laughing ourselves silly. She slings an arm over my shoulder. "Forget that asshole. We're on Spring Break! In Miami!" I smile, very, very happy.

By the time we meet up with the rest of our group, we're both fairly tipsy from bumming drinks off different groups of college students all down the beach. We wave—they've built up a bonfire and they're all drinking around it—and throw our clothes we've been carrying (having had swimming suits underneath) into the room we're sharing, before making our way down to the group. Ken is nowhere in sight, so I let myself relax, mixing myself a drink. Someone turns on music, and with our inhibitions rapidly deteriorating, we're up and dancing, grinding against each other in swimming suits, spilling our drinks.

I'm between Kelly and some guy—Travis, maybe—and really feeling good from the alcohol, when it starts feeling not so good. I think I'm going to be sick. I've never, ever drank this much in my life before. I slide out from between them, and their bodies move together, continuing in perfect rhythm to the music pounding out. I move down the beach, until I find an area that's a little secluded. I take deep breaths of the cold, salty air, and away from the heat of the bodies and the fire and the alcohol, I feel better. My stomach settles, and I decide I'll head back as soon as I feel steady. I'm done drinking for the night.

And before I know it, my head is slammed back into the sand, and stars are blooming before my eyes. I struggle back to awareness, trying to understand, when I feel more pain than I remember feeling since I was a child—without knowing how exactly I got there, I'm face down in the sand, and I'm being raped—hard. I scream, and take in a mouthful of the beach and cough, gagging on it, tears streaming down my face. I raise an elbow backwards, and make contact with what is obviously a face—not once, but twice, and then my hands are held by each of his, by my face, and I feel like I'm being ripped apart as I struggle to get away and he grunts in pleasure, above me.

I black out, for a time, and when I wake up I feel him pulling out, getting off of me, and walking away. I tremble, as sobs start racking my body again, and I hurt so much I can hardly move. But I do. I don't know how, but I lift my head, looking around to make sure he's gone. My bikini bottoms are by my head, and I grasp at them desperately, turning over and sliding them over my aching body. I stumble up to my feet, noticing the blood in the sand, and knowing where it's from.

I try to keep myself calm, evaluating the situation. All I want to do is shower, like after my nightmares, but I know enough not to do that. No one will be in the condo—they'll be at the beach. I'm afraid to run into the people I know, because now that I'm not in the moment, the grunts sounded—even felt—familiar, as did the organ inside me and the washboard abs against my back. I make my way back there, giving any partiers a wide berth, and pick up the phone, calling the number for the police office, which is on a magnet on the fridge. I make a mental note to thank the people who rented us the condo for that.

"Miami-Dade Police Department."

"I… I've just been… raped. Where should I go to report it?"

"You come right down here, ma'am, to the department—we'll take your statement. Are you in need of medical care? We can meet you at the hospital, or send an ambulance…?"

I sniffle, wiping my tears away impatiently. "I, uh… I'm not sure. Maybe I'll meet you there. I'm… I'm from out of town. Can… can you give me the address to the nearest hospital?"

I copy it down with shaking fingers, and give my name, and then call myself a cab. Then I move as quickly as I can, despite how sore I am, up to the room Kelly and I share. I dig out a pair of black sweat pants and my favorite Harvard sleep shirt, and pull them over my swimming suit. I don't know how they catch the guys, but I figure that if showering isn't allowed, I should probably keep the same clothes on.

I grab my purse, double-checking that I have all my essentials, and move back downstairs, taking the address and waiting outside for the cab. I give the address, and pay him in silence, moving into the hospital. By the way people turn to stare at me, I figure I'm in pretty bad shape, but I ignore it. I don't know anyone here anyway.

I tell the woman at the desk that I called the police to report a rape, and they were meeting me here, and she immediately sends me to a private room to wait. There's a hospital gown on the bed, but I don't change yet. I'm still not sure if it's okay to take the swimming suit off.

Shortly thereafter, two women walk in and introduce themselves—one is in a uniform, and puts "officer" before her name, the other says she's a CSI. The uniformed woman stands outside the door, while the CSI woman—Carrie—pulls up a seat next to me, her motions slow.

"Sara." I say, after a moment, realizing I haven't introduced myself, but rather just stared since they entered the room. "Sara Sidle."

She nods. "I know, you gave your name to P.D. Are… are you okay, Sara? Do you have any immediate medical concerns? The woman at the desk didn't seem to think so but…"

I tremble. "I, uh… I'm bleeding. I think I must have… torn." My eyes squeeze shut, and I feel my whole body shaking. She nods.

"Okay, Sara. Here's what we're going to do. I'll take your clothes from you, to process, once you've changed into a gown. I'll get a nurse in here to make sure you're okay, and then I'm going to do an SAE kit—it's kind of like your annual appointment, just a little swabbing, a little pressure. Then I'll take pictures of all your wounds and bruises, and look for trace evidence on your body, and in your hair. Okay?"

I nod, liking knowing what's coming, even if I don't understand all of it. She turns to leave, to give me a minute, but I stop her.

"I, uh… I'm… afraid to be alone right now. Maybe… you could stay, and just turn your back?"

"Of course, Sara." She gives me a reassuring smile, and I like the way she says my name. It calms me.

I pull off the shirt and sweat pants, placing them in the separate bags she left sitting on the bed for me, and then slide the now-blood stained swimsuit bottoms off my body and into yet another bag, finally pulling the top off and putting it in the last bag. I tie the gown around me, with difficulty, and then tell her she can turn around. She smiles again.

"I, uh… I wasn't wearing the shirt and pants when… I was just in the swimming suit."

She nods. "Once we've gotten all the evidence from your body, you can tell me everything that happened, okay?"

I nod, and climb into bed, wincing as I'm inspected, squeezing my eyes closed tightly. Carrie does the SAE, and pictures and whatever else of that area of my body first, because I need stitches. A lot of stitches. Once she's done, a doctor comes in to do the stitches while the nurse continues to go over my body, reporting her findings to Carrie—other than the tearing, the bump on my head, and some broken ribs, it sounds like I'm just badly bruised. The doctor and nurse leave, and Carrie looks at me.

"I'll do trace first—after those stitches, you probably want to sit for a while." I nod, and she takes a picture of my head before combing through my hair—there's lots of sand, I'm not sure what else. She scrapes under my fingernails, and meticulously goes over the rest of my body while I sit there, eyes closed, breathing heavily.

She helps me to stand then, and takes pictures of each bruise and scrape and cut. I'm surprised when I see the massive hand-shaped bruising on my wrists—I hadn't realized how hard I'd struggled. Finally, I'm allowed to lie back down, and she sits next to me. I take a deep breath, and tell her everything I can remember, answering her questions and then reliving the airplane bathroom event, and the confrontation in the condo, when she asks if I had any enemies. When I finish, and she's out of questions, I'm exhausted, and I fall asleep, even though I'm not sure they had planned to keep me for any period of time.

The next morning, I call Kelly and ask her to bring me clothing. They release me, and we take another cab to the police department, giving them my Boston address and phone number, telling them I'm going home that day. We go back to the condo, and pack up my things. As we're leaving, I see Ken come down the stairs, into the kitchen. He has a black eye, and a cut lip. Kelly looks at him in alarm.

"What happened to you? You look like somebody elbowed you in the face."

His eyes lock on mine, and I fight the shaking in my body. "I dunno… must have fallen down while I was drunk last night."

She nods, and we leave in a hurry. She drives me to the airport, walks me to security, and hugs me.

"Are you sure you'll be okay, Sara? Maybe I should go back with you…"

I shake my head. "You can't afford to switch your flight, Kel. It's fine. I'll see you in a week." And I walked away, getting on the plane and finally, finally, breathing a sigh of relief.