I thought of the things I’d wanted someone to say to me. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. But I do want to get you out of here.” A beat. “What’s your name?”
She crossed her arms over her chest like she was cold, despite the humid basement, and whispered, “Laurel.”
“Laurel, I’m Shay. Trust me, I understand what you’re feeling. Will you tell me the guy’s name?”
“Andrew,” she said quietly. “I don’t know his last name. I’m sorry. But he lives here.”
I nodded. “Good. What do you think about talking to the police? I can come with you.” I gestured to the stairs. “I was just upstairs, and it’s empty. If you say yes, I’ll go first, and we can slip out the front door and go straight to the station.”
She looked at me with hope and fear. “Okay,” she whispered.
I blinked in surprise, then held out my hand. Laurel stepped forward and took it. Her skin was paper thin. I would always remember that about her, how the skin of her hands was so fragile, you couldn’t help rubbing it with your thumb.
I tugged her up the stairs, moving slowly, listening. But there was nothing, so we proceeded out of the darkness, creeping across the house, closing in on the front door.
Then the thunderous sound of footsteps down the staircase made us jerk to a halt. I threw myself in front of Laurel, who shrank behind me.
But it was just another girl. Short and stocky, with close-cropped pink hair and a silver nose ring. “Hey,” she boomed. “Fellow walk-of-shamers. Excellent.” She waved at the door. “Going back to Whitney, right?”
I could feel Laurel shaking by the brush of her hair against my shoulders.
“Yes… I mean, no,” I stammered. “We’re not going there.”
The girl frowned. “Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing.” I tugged Laurel out the door. The early September sun was still high and hot, so I squinted, shielding my eyes.
To my surprise, the pink-haired girl raced after us. “Wait,” she called, but Laurel and I kept going. I could feel Laurel’s nerves wrapping around me like a staticky blanket.
“Did something happen?”
I stilled, then turned. “Do you know something?”
She shook her head, but the way she looked at Laurel… It was recognition. “I’ve seen that look before. Did someone hurt you?”
My hackles rose. I expected Laurel to deny it, shut down this invasive stranger and run away, but instead she exhaled and said, “Andrew. He…wouldn’t stop.”
The girl’s reaction was instantaneous: her cheeks flamed, and her eyes flew wide. “That fucker… I know him.” She turned for the house. “I’ll kill him.”
“Wait,” Laurel pleaded. “Please. I don’t want to see him.”
“We’re going to the police,” I said in a low voice, eyes tracking to the house. We’d left, but we hadn’t made it far. I was painfully aware of who might overhear us.
The girl’s eyes searched me, then Laurel. There was a quality to her expressions, a rare kind of openness. “Can I come? I don’t have to go in with you. Just want to walk you there.”
It was the last thing I’d expected. I turned to Laurel.
“Okay,” she said softly, surprising me again.
So then it was the three of us, Dorothy and her menagerie, walking the yellow brick road. The pink-haired girl introduced herself as Clementine Jones, Clem for short. She did most of the talking, which was a favor. Laurel was bone-tired, still in shock. I could tell every time she re-woke to her body because she gave a little start. We walked and walked through neighborhoods, and all the while Clem rattled on, telling us about growing up in Wisconsin with a big family, being a soccer fanatic in high school and here at Whitney, where she played striker. She was telling us about her strange roommates, one of whom was obsessed with anime, when we arrived at the station.