When pushed for information in further emails, Lassiter told Coley about a serious sexual assault claim that Abbey had made, which the university had tried to make go away. There had been photographs of her in a compromising situation that could be construed as evidence of consent on the university social website and Abigail had left the college without pressing any charges. Lassiter had copies of the pictures, which were attached in a zip file. Parker had always suspected that Abbey had been through something traumatic, but he had never pressed her for the information because he didn’t see what difference it made, and she could speak to him about it if she wanted to, when she was ready.

He understood that it took time to open those wounds; it clearly hadn’t been long for her, she was still dealing with it on the inside, and he would be there if she ever decided to talk about whatever it was. But reading this enraged Parker; Lassiter was telling Coley how easy Abbey would be to manipulate, how she had been easy to dissuade from bringing her attackers to justice. She didn’t say it in so many words, but Parker could feel the excitement and camaraderie between them.

Parker moved the cursor to the zip file and hovered; he couldn’t open it, not least because it wasn’t fair to Abbey. He knew from the documentation of his own assault that every time a person looked at the photos, you were plunged back into the shame; as long as the photos existed, you could never get away from what happened. As if that were even a possibility. He deleted the email without looking. He didn’t need to see Abbie that way, not that he would love her any less, but it didn’t matter, it wasn’t an itch he needed to scratch.

Lassiter proceeded to say in further emails that her candidate was a wily tomcat who was up to any task put in front of him. Candidate for what? Further emails mentioned other candidates, but no one by name. There were several different people involved; this was obviously bigger than Parker had first thought. If Parker hadn’t searched for Abbey specifically he wouldn’t have found these emails. He found two other accounts that spoke about what had happened but nothing that could be construed as anything other than concern for a new student.

Anger pulsed through Parker; he hadn’t felt this incensed in a long time. He struggled to concentrate, to stay in the present. Since Abbey had fallen pregnant he had been concerned about this side of himself, he wanted to prove he could keep it at bay. He worried that this badness he had was genetic, passed from his grandfather down through his father who had died when he was young. He had a fear that this child would be born broken, something he had often felt about himself. He had never been formally diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder because he never trusted anyone enough to subject himself to psychotherapy. He knew though. It was always there, in the background, the ability for the switch to be flipped and suddenly he was being pulled backwards into a place where he had no control over himself. It always started with an excess of saliva in the mouth, then a swirling head, not a pain so much as a jumble of thoughts and bad memories all shouting to get to the surface first. If you were lucky, you got a memory that was unpleasant but manageable; if you were unlucky, you were thrust into a nightmare where it was impossible to hide from yourself. He gripped onto the desk, trying to stay in the moment, trying not to disappear into the past, where he was vulnerable and weak. Exposed and alone. Like looking for shade in a desert, impossible to get respite for even a second.