“Can you describe what happened?” he asked. I imagined him checking off number three on his list.
I shrugged. “I left the basketball game and was walking through the courtyard when a couple guys showed up and banged me up a little. Not much else to tell.”
“Were they students?”
I wasn’t sure how to respond not knowing what the relationship between them and William was, but knowing I didn’t want to say anything that would jeopardize him, I answered vaguely, “They could have been. It was so dark I couldn’t really make out their faces.”
Simchuck frowned, doodling a football in the margins of his notebook. “No details at all? Not even height, build, approximate age?”
I shook my head, squeezing my lips together, nudging William in a get-me-out-of-here way. Right on cue, I heard a bandage being ripped open.
“The first man was in his late twenties, six foot, one-eighty, maybe one-eighty five,” William listed off. “Brown hair, green eyes and a medium complexion. He has a scar two inches long running down the left side of his face. The second one is early twenties, five foot eight, stocky build, reddish-blonde hair, brown eyes, and has a chain tattooed down his right arm.”
Simchuck’s pen was scratching like mad to keep up.
“I don’t think you have to worry about them showing back up here, but you’ve got their descriptions just in case.”
“Chain tattoo . . .” Simchuck whispered to himself as he continued to write.
“All done,” William said, brushing my hair back from my ear.
“You’re the best,” I said, nearly jumping up from the couch.
“If you’ll excuse us Officer Simchuck”—William winked at me from the side—“I need to get Bryn back to her room so she can get some rest. It’s been some night.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Simchuck waved us on, continuing his note-taking. “I think I got what I need.”
“Have a nice night,” William said formally, reaching for my hand and knotting his fingers through mine. That moment, feeling him reach for my hand as if it was instinctual, was worth a hundred more run-ins with Ben and Troy. It felt so good it actually hurt.
He led me out of the room, and I allowed him to, swearing I was done holding back from him. I was going to be an open-book from now on. A Bryn re-model was in order, starting off by tearing down the walls barricaded around me.
“I knew I forgot something,” Simchuck said behind us, an audible smacking of the forehead following. “One more thing, Bryn,” he shouted out at us as we were escaping into the hall.
I stiffened, wondering if we were far enough away Simchuck might assume we were out of hearing-range. Unless we were practically deaf, I didn’t think that would fly. I turned my head back at him, keeping my hand rooted in William’s.
“What’s that?”
“Do you have any reason to believe you might know these guys? You know, had a run-in with them in the past where they tried to mess you?
I would have sworn Simchuck had just pounded me in the stomach than asked me a question. I felt the stopper burst from the bottle I tried to keep my past—that night—trapped in.
I felt my knees give a little, like my body had suddenly become too heavy to keep upright. My scars became open wounds, searing pain that sucked the air from my lungs. My hand fell out of William’s, right as the pain became too much. I clutched at my stomach and back, pawing at the scars as if I could extinguish the flames I felt burning in them.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, worry heightening his voice an octave. “Are you hurt?”
I couldn’t answer, partly due to the pain, but mainly due to there being no conclusive answer. The physical damage had healed long ago, but the hurt that goes deep and burrows in like a parasite never goes away.
William pried my hands away and nudged my shirt up timidly, running his fingers over the purple lines of my past.
“These are entry and exit wounds,” he whispered assuredly, although as if he wished he was mistaken. “You were shot.”
“Everything alright?” Simchuck called out as he approached us.
I found my voice, a small miracle in its own right. “Everything’s fine,” I said, before chancing a glimpse at William who was still rubbing over my scars, as if he was trying to erase them.
“I’m fine,” I whispered down to him. “Really.”
When he looked up, I knew I hadn’t convinced him anymore than I had myself.
I composed my face and turned back to the fast approaching Simchuck. “To answer your question”—I cleared my throat—“they’re no one I know. I’ve never seen them before.”
I held Simchuck’s stare until he was convinced. He clicked the top of his pen and hung it over his shirt pocket. “Thanks for your time. If you think of anything else, give us a call.”
“Thanks,” I replied, not having to fake the sentiment. I was beyond thankful he’d made our proceedings as quick and relatively painless as rent-a-cop possible.
“Here’s my personal number.” He slid a card in my hand and his eyebrows peaked in an expectant way before he hustled around William’s kneeling form.
“See ya, Savior,” he tapped William’s shoulder before extending his arm at Paul, perched halfway up the staircase—no doubt eavesdropping without looking too blatant about it. “Catch up with you later, Captain.”