“Yes. Combing the entire area.”
“Simone has no choice in what happens from here on out, but it might help the state if you take more pictures, right? There’s also the possibility that you already have enough evidence without any additional photos, yes?”
“That’s right.”
“Taking more pictures won’t change anything as far as her rights?”
“True.”
I look back at Simone. “Baby, I think you should let them collect all the evidence they can.”
She sniffles, and her shoulders drop along with her face. “Okay,” she whispers.
Fuck, I hope I’m not making a mistake here.
Chapter 2
Simone
* * *
I’m floating outside my body. That’s the only way I can describe what’s happening. I hope I fell asleep at the wheel on my way home and slammed into a tree. I hope I’m unconscious and having a bizarre dream that’s much worse than if I were injured in an accident or dead.
I know I’m not thinking straight. I should be grateful I’m alive and that the fucker didn’t manage to rape me. I beat him off. I survived. Nothing is broken. Not even my hymen. Figuratively speaking, of course. If that really were a thing, I broke it myself years ago.
This is a nightmare, though. I exaggerated a bit while I was shouting at everyone, but only marginally, and they all know it. No one refuted my statements. Not even the officer.
Professor Arnalt thinks I should let them take their pictures, and I trust him, and his head is on straighter than mine right now, so I’ll do it.
I look toward the officer. “Fine,” I mumble.
She blows out a relieved breath and gives me her millionth smile. “How about if the professor and I step out so the nurse can help you get changed?”
I jerk my gaze toward Professor Arnalt.
He’s still holding my hand. What must he be thinking? I don’t want him to leave, but he’d probably rather fall through a crack in the floor than stay. He’s got to be cursing Mr. Hoffman and Natasha for being out of town this week.
I have no business asking so much of him. He’s already gone above and beyond. He’s saving my life here, and I’m so fucking grateful, but he’s only being kind. Isn’t he?
He came running to my rescue. I can’t believe how fast he arrived. I know time is fucked up in my head, but it seems like it was only a few minutes between when the police called Natasha and Professor Arnalt showed up.
I know he cares about me. I was one of his students for four years. A good student, too. I was probably a pushy bitch on more occasions than I can count, but he never got angry. Usually, he smirked and pointed toward the door of his office when I came in to ask him ridiculous questions about homework. Questions he knew I already had the answers to.
He lifts my chin with one finger, holding my gaze. He seems to be searching for something, and I hope I convey it. Mostly, it’s sheer terror at the thought of him leaving.
“If you want me to stay in the room, I will, Simone.”
I give a shaky nod. “Please, Sir.”
He leans in closer and whispers in my ear, “Camden. My name is Camden.”
I shiver, partly from his breath hitting my ear and partly from the new familiarity between us. “Yes, Sir,” I respond. It lightens the mood. I can’t imagine what these two women must be thinking about our odd relationship, but it’s none of their business.
I’m confident he’s simply being nice. I refuse to let myself believe otherwise, but the fact that he’s willing to stay in the room with me is huge. I need his strength. Even though I’m not his Little girl, I still need to lean on him for this.
I’ve pictured this man stripping me naked and helping me dress a million times. At no point did I ever visualize that happening under these circumstances, but I’m not a prude. I’d rather have him helping me than these strangers, even if they are female. I know Professor Arnalt—Camden. I don’t know either of these women.
“Will you help me?”
