Logan couldn't shake a nagging sense of unease as he tossed his video game controller aside. The satisfaction he usually found in beating his frustrations into digital submission wasn't there. His mind kept drifting back to Veronica. With a sigh, he trudged down the stairs, intent on finding something to eat.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, and when he saw Dick's name on the screen, he answered, irritation flickering through him.
"Yeah?"
"We gave that bitch a lesson she'll never forget," Dick said, his voice filled with smug satisfaction.
Logan laughed. "Oh yeah? What did you do? The dog crap idea was genius. I still can't believe she had her birthday as her locker code."
"Let's just say, it was way better than that. Revenge at its finest," Dick replied. "See you tomorrow, man."
Before Logan could ask what he meant, Dick hung up. Curiosity flickered in his mind, but he shoved it aside, heading to the kitchen.
When Veronica came to, the first thing she registered was the cold. Her skin prickled, her head pounded, and every inch of her body ached. Night had fallen, the darkness pressing down on her like a suffocating blanket.
Veronica forced herself to sit up and start the engine, the hum of her LeBaron a lifeline. She shifted into gear, pulling out of the empty parking lot with shaking hands. Her broken fingers barely gripped the wheel, but she managed to keep on the road. The world outside was a blur of darkness and headlights, the ocean's roar fading as she sped towards the hospital.
Her thoughts came to her in a disjointed jumble, but she discarded the most pressing ones. She couldn't think about it. Not yet. All she knew was that she needed help. A doctor. Proof.
By the time she reached the hospital, the pain was all-consuming. Her head swam, her vision hazy as she stumbled out of the car. Every step towards the emergency entrance was a trial of her endurance as she swayed on her feet. She caught her reflection in the glass doors in the split second before they opened, covered in dirt and blood—and felt a wave of nausea hit her again. She tried to take a deep breath to push through it, but it felt like she was being stabbed though her ribs.
The lights were too bright, the sterile smell of antiseptic overwhelming. A nurse at the desk looked up, her eyes widening at the sight of Veronica's dishevelled form. "I need help," Veronica croaked, her voice rough, barely more than a whisper. "I was... attacked."
Everything after that happened in a blur of motion. Nurses, doctors, questions. They brought her to a private room, dimming the lights, speaking in calm, low voices. Veronica floated through the process, numb, detached. The sexual assault exam was thorough, clinical, invasive. They took swabs, checked her injuries, documented the bruises and cuts. They brought her the morning after pill in a cup.
Through it all, Veronica was distant, as if her mind had left her body behind. But one thought cut through the fog: they wouldn't get away with it.
They would pay.
As she lay on the hospital bed, her hand wrapped in a temporary splint, her ribs taped, her thoughts began to sharpen. The pain wasn't just physical anymore. It was fury—deep, consuming rage. What they had done to her wasn't going to end here, in this sterile room.
No, she would make sure of that.
Veronica's eyes focused, the room around her fading into the background. The pain and fear would always be there, lingering in the corners of her mind, but something else had taken root.
Each of them - Dick, Sean, Tad - all of them.
They would regret it.
As Veronica stepped inside, the familiar creak of the front door sounded louder than usual in the oppressive silence. She barely had time to gather herself before her father's voice boomed from the living room.
"Veronica?" Keith's voice was thick with worry, escalating into panic as his footsteps grew louder. "Where the hell have you been? Do you know how worried I've been?" His figure appeared in the hallway, storming towards her—but then he froze, eyes widening as they took in her bruised, battered form. "Oh, god," he whispered, his breath catching in his throat.
Veronica swallowed hard, her throat dry, and forced herself to speak. "Dad, it's okay," she said, her voice steady though everything inside her was unravelling. She longed to collapse into his arms, to cry and let him take it all away like he had when she was a little girl. But she couldn't. Not now. Not with the truth threatening to break her apart.
Keith didn't move. His eyes roamed over her—bloodied knuckles, torn clothes, the bruises darkening on her skin. His face twisted with fear and anger. "Have you been to the hospital?" he demanded, his words coming fast, panic-fuelled. "I'm calling the station. Who did this, honey? Tell me—where does it hurt?" He helped her to the couch, his hands trembling as they brushed against her shoulder.
Veronica winced as she sat, the ache in her ribs making her breath hitch, but she plastered on a weak smile, her stomach churning. "It's not as bad as it looks, I swear," she said, but her voice cracked. She didn't have the strength to keep up the act much longer. "There's no point in calling the police. I didn't see anything."
Keith's expression shifted to disbelief, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. "You didn't see anything? Veronica, you—"
"No," she cut him off, her voice firmer this time. "I got hit from behind. That's all. I don't know who it was." The lie lodged in her throat like poison, burning its way down. She hated herself for saying it, for hiding the truth from the one person who would tear the world apart for her.
Keith's eyes searched her face, the scepticism clear. Veronica could see the war playing out on his face. His instincts as a detective were screaming at him to push harder, to dig deeper. "Veronica, you must've seen something. Someone—"
"I didn't!" she snapped, and then softened immediately, the fire in her dying out as fast as it had come. "They just wanted to rough me up, Dad. I'm fine. Really."
His gaze flickered with suspicion, and his next words came slow, careful. "They didn't...?" His eyes asked the question he was terrified to hear the answer to, filled with the kind of knowing that only years on the force could bring.
Veronica felt the weight of the lie before it even left her lips. "No," she said quickly, too quickly. "No, they didn't do anything like that." The words tasted bitter, and her stomach churned with nausea as the lie settled between them. The truth of what they'd done—what those monsters had taken from her—felt like a secret too heavy to share. If she told him, it would become real, and she couldn't bear that. Not yet.
Keith's shoulders sagged with visible relief, but his face remained tight with anger. "But they can't just get away with this!" he shouted, the frustration spilling out of him. He paced the room, fists clenched at his sides, helplessness written in every movement.
Veronica shook her head slowly, fighting the sting of tears. "There's no evidence. You know what that means, Dad." Her voice was hollow, resigned. She knew she couldn't report this to Sheriff Lamb. He had revelled her in arrest, his actions lined with a pure hatred. And she knew what would happen in the town without a middle class. They'd protect the boys, not her.
Keith stopped pacing, his jaw clenched, fists still balled. "I'll—" He paused, searching for an answer that wasn't there. "I'll talk to someone. I'll—"
"There's nothing you can do," Veronica whispered, her voice barely audible. "Not this time."
Silence hung between them like a weight, suffocating and heavy. She forced herself to stand, every part of her body screaming in protest. "I'm going to take a shower," she muttered, avoiding his eyes. She didn't trust herself to keep the lie going if she stayed any longer. "I'll be fine, really."
Keith stood rooted to the spot, his face twisted with helplessness as he watched her limp toward the bathroom. "Veronica..."
Veronica didn't stop. She couldn't. Her body screamed at her to pause, to rest, but something deeper, something raw, urged her forward. She stumbled down the hallway of her apartment, one hand pressing into her ribs to dull the ache, the other fumbling for balance along the cold plaster walls. She reached the bathroom and shut the door behind her as softly as she could, as if she might somehow protect herself from the horror outside. Only then did she let out a shaky breath, sagging against the door as if it alone held her together.
She twisted the shower handle sharply, turning the water on full blast, letting the roar consume the quiet stillness. The sound, relentless and harsh, felt like a kind of barrier between her and the rest of the world. The bathroom began to fill with steam, dense and thick, coating the mirror and curling around her like smoke, like a fog she couldn't shake.
The jacket she'd luckily kept in the car came off first, revealing the torn, dirty remnants of her clothing underneath, to keep the truth from the eyes of her father. One of the nurses at the hospital had kindly helped her clean up after the exam – taking off the worst of the blood and dirt from her skin.
Each movement felt like an agony all its own, a reminder of hands that had held her down, of bruises that still burned hot under her skin. Veronica tugged at her pants, struggling with a hiss of frustration as they snagged on her ankle monitor, that cold metal shackle reminding her that her freedom was an illusion. She fought to keep her hands steady as she folded her clothes, bloodstained and torn, and set them into a plastic bag that lay in the corner of the room, a silent accusation.
Finally, Veronica forced herself to face the mirror. The sight that met her was like a stranger staring back. Bruises had erupted across her face and body, deepening into ugly shades of purple and blue, a dark tapestry laid across her pale skin. Her lip was split, a raw cut darkening as it dried, while her left eye had begun to swell shut, a grotesque reminder of their fists. The dark, mottled bruises on her arms and thighs were shaped like fingers, the imprints of the hands that had gripped her with no mercy.
She stepped under the scalding spray of the shower, letting it crash down on her, each drop a burst of heat that seared her bruised skin. She wanted it to hurt, needed it to hurt, as if the pain could somehow push out the grime that had soaked into her soul. The water turned red as it circled the drain, a diluted spiral of blood and grit. She scrubbed her skin until it was raw, until her fingers were numb, but no amount of hot water could wash away the feeling of their hands on her. The way they had violated her lingered, etched into her bones, a stain beyond the reach of soap or scalding water.
Slowly, her knees buckled, and she sank to the floor of the shower, folding in on herself. She wrapped one arm around her legs, drawing them tight to her chest as she let her forehead rest against her knees. Her broken hand throbbed in pain. The water beat down relentlessly, mingling with the silent tears she couldn't hold back any longer.
She had lied to her dad, pushed away the one person who would have believed her without question, and in doing so, she felt more alone than she ever had. She was an island in that moment, adrift and broken, a girl in a cage of her own silence. Veronica shook with sobs she didn't dare let herself voice, each one tearing at her like a wound opening afresh.