“I don’t feel good. Can I get some water?” the voice whispers.
It’s Emily.
The second male voice across the room gives a muffled utterance, his tone dismissive.
“Well, if you don’t want to be here then leave,” the first male voice snaps back at him, his soft coo now acidic. He turns back to the woman, his voice tender again. “You need some water, sweetheart? Let me help you.”
The sound of water hitting glass. The man by the door says something out of hearing. The sound of someone glugging back water thirstily, catching their breath, and gulping back more.
“Whoa, whoa. Slow down,” the soft male voice says. “Have you taken something?”
“No. Just so thirsty.” Emily’s voice, it’s recognizable although thickened, distorted slightly, by alcohol or drugs I presume. My thought immediately backed up by her words. “I think, someone put something…my drink. It all feels…too slow.”
The sound of a bed or sofa creaking as someone sits down near her. “Slow is fine. We’re not going anywhere, are we? It’s nice here just…us, right?”
I shudder at his words, his tone mocking in its tenderness. My hand darts out to the keyboard to stop the audio—I’ve heard enough—but I hesitate as I hear:
“Who is he?” Emily asks hazily.
The sound of the closer man turning, a pause. “Don’t worry about him. He’s a friend. We’re all friends, right?”
The sound of Emily flopping back into the cushions. “Yeah, I guess. Where’s Marla?”
“I don’t know who that is, sweetheart.”
The voice by the door says something and the door opens; sounds of the party flood the room then muffle as the door closes again. The second man is gone.
“Look at you,” he says, his voice flat and suddenly much closer. “You’re very beautiful, but I suppose you know that. You didn’t like me earlier, did you? But I think you like me now.”
“No—I need to…” Emily slurs.
My hand shoots to the space bar and I stop the recording. I don’t need to hear any more. I know what this is and I feel sick to the pit of my stomach. It’s a recording of Emily being raped. That much is clear.
I bolt up quickly from the floor, putting instant distance between me and the computer as if continued proximity might, in some way, imply tacit collusion. My blood fizzles with completely useless adrenaline, even though I know that I can’t help her. I can’t stop what happened over a month ago from happening.
The audio is only six minutes in, there’s still another forty-three minutes or so to go.
I know I should put the computer away and pass this straight on to Cortez tomorrow. I don’t need any of this in my life. It’s not appropriate for me to listen to it at all. I can just draw Cortez’s attention to the audio file and let her do the rest. But I would have to tell Cortez that I accessed a missing woman’s private emails. I can’t help think of the News International phone-hacking scandal, when a journalist accessed a missing girl’s private voicemail. What I’ve just done is no different, is it? Should I really be telling the police I’ve done that? It might be nothing but if it’s something then I’ve broken the law and people will find out.
It occurs to me that I could tell Cortez that Emily told me about the rape herself; I would just have to pretend we were good friends rather than minor acquaintances. It would only be a white lie.
But then if any of her actual friends came forward after that it would be fairly obvious I lied. Although I do appear to be the only person looking for Emily.
I realize I’m holding my breath, my shoulders high and tensed, like a trapped animal, like a cornered boxer. I need to think straight.