Once outside, Anya stood at her car. Desiree’s words repeated in her mind. If you can’t feel pain, you can’t feel love.
It was just like If you can’t be hurt, you can’t be loved.
Did Desiree somehow know what the rapist said? Was she sending Anya a message? Had she, herself, been raped? Was she saying that the baby was a product of the assault?
The words were disturbing. It wasn’t something expectant mothers would normally come out with. She drove off, wondering whether Desiree was warning her about Geoff or Nick. The thought made her check her rear-view mirror to make sure no one was following. A few minutes passed and, after running an amber light, the hairs on the back of her neck relaxed. She wondered why she’d felt so threatened. Why did Desiree say “friends back home?” What friends, and where exactly were they from? Fisherman’s Bay?
She thought back to the minimal conversation they’d had. Desiree had said something about men being bastards but that she’d found a good one.
Anya turned on the radio and a news update rapidly faded into the background. Desiree’s comment could have been innocent. The woman was not far off giving birth. The labor would be on her mind already. To increase the focus, a pregnant woman was a magnet for everyone with a birthing horror story. Even strangers felt the need to regale mothers-to-be with the most horrendous tales of excruciating agony culminating in third-degree tears, stillborns or permanent incapacity.
At least that was Anya’s experience and that of her friends. Not once had any of the well-meaning scaremongers bothered to say that pain relief was available and that there were no prizes for being a martyr in the delivery room. Or that most women who gave birth chose to do it again.
If either Geoff Willard or his cousin was the serial rapist, and Desiree had spent time with them, it was possible she’d picked up the phrase, having no idea of its sinister meaning. Maybe it even came from Lillian Willard. It was a strange “tough love” sort of expression. No, it couldn’t have been just a coincidence, she decided. There was no such thing.
Anya hit the indicator and pulled into a breakdown lane on the M2. Immediately she put her hazard lights on to save anyone running into her. Multiple cars passed. No one slowed or stopped. Thank God, she thought, that chivalry was dead. The last thing she wanted was some man or men stopping. She’d seen rape victims fall for that one many times. Locked in, she dialled Hayden Richards.
“Jesus Christ! She really said that to you?”
Great. The detective didn’t come out with comments about over-reacting or panicking for no good reason.
“Where the hell are you now?”
“On the M2. I’m fine. Just heading back home. Look, it was said in innocence, I’m sure. They were trying to hook me up with Nick Hudson.”
“Christ! How did you get out of that one without ticking him off?”
“I behaved like a professional and sneaked out the door.”
She could hear Hayden’s voice go up half an octave. “Nothing like the rejection of a woman. I wouldn’t have picked you as the skulking-away type, not until the end of the game-show, anyway.” His voice returned to normal, much to Anya’s relief.
“How about you go straight home and get some sleep and we’ll talk again in the morning.”
Something in his tone suggested he was more concerned than he wanted her to know. She was about to hang up when he spoke.
“Can you do one thing for me? Promise you’ll lock all your doors and windows.”
Anya felt as though someone had just walked over her grave.