Just Remember to Breathe (Thompson Sisters)

him uncomfortable.”
    “I see. That would be Dylan Paris.”
    I nodded.
    “So Dylan doesn’t drink. How long have the two of you been dating?”
    That was a complicated question. I answered the best I could. “We met on a foreign exchange program three years ago, and were together after that. But we split up last February, while he was in Afghanistan. Then just recently got back together.”
    “How long ago?”
    “A few weeks.”
    “Did Randy Brewer have any reason to believe the two of you were together?”
    I shook my head, violently. “I made it very clear I wanted nothing to do with him.”
    “Tell me how you ended up alone with him. You’re in a dark hallway all alone with the guy you claim tried to rape you previously. In a short skirt. How did that happen?”
    In a short skirt? What the fuck?
    “I went to get some water. I didn’t even know Randy was at the party, but he showed up in the kitchen while I was in there, and backed me into the hallway. I was trying to get away from him.”
    “So you went off on your own and led him into the hallway.”
    “No! Why are you treating me like this is my fault?”
    “Miss Thompson, I’m just trying to get to the bottom of what happened. A young man is in the hospital with a possible fractured skull. I need to know if you were playing any games. Maybe trying to make your boyfriend jealous? I mean, I’d be jealous if I came along and found a girl like you in a dark hall with some guy’s hand up your skirt.”
    I couldn’t help it. I started to cry, in disgust and rage.
    “You are so wrong. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
    “Then help me understand.”
    “I’ve already told you. I was trying to get away from him. He threw me up against the wall and I screamed, so he put his hand over my mouth. I was struggling.” My voice rose to a shout. “Do you want to see the fucking bruises?”
    “I don’t think that will be necessary, Miss, I know the hospital personnel took photos. All right, let’s go through this again. Last spring, you and Brewer were dating.”
    “We dated exactly twice.”
    “Right. While your boyfriend was off in the Army.”
    “ After we broke up!”
    “So you went out with him, drinking underage, and started to have sex and wanted to stop?”
    “No! He pushed me down! If his roommates hadn’t come in when they did I don’t know what would have happened!”
    “Gotcha. His roommates come in, interrupt, and you… what? Call the police? Report him? Run away?”
    I stared at the floor. “Yes, I ran away. And I tried to forget about it.”
    “So he comes back tonight, at some upscale party in a penthouse apartment, and sexually assaults you, and ends up with a fractured skull. It just doesn’t add up to me. If you’d reported it last spring, it’d be one thing. You say Dylan doesn’t drink. Did you know he does drugs?”
    “What?”
    “Oh, you didn’t. Yeah, his system was completely loaded. Opiates, among other things.”
    I shook my head. “Did you know that his right leg was pretty much shredded by a roadside bomb in Afghanistan nine months ago? The painkillers are prescription.”
    “What happened to his hand? Why’s it in a cast?”
    I swallowed, and whispered, “We were having an argument, and he … he punched a wall.”
    “Jesus Christ,” Campbell said. His face twisted, one side of his mouth lower than the other, and shook his head just slightly. “He punched a wall hard enough to fracture his own hand?”
    I nodded. “It’s not how it sounds.”
    “You better be glad he didn’t punch you, kid.”
    “Dylan would never do that.”
    “Look, Miss Thompson. I get it. I served in Iraq myself. But let me tell you, when someone is fucked up on drugs, and angry, sometimes they can’t distinguish between the wall they’re punching and the girlfriend they’re punching. You need to stop trying to defend him and worry about yourself for a change.”
    “I don’t want to talk to you any more.”
    “I didn’t ask what you wanted, Miss Thompson.”
    “If you have anything else to say to me, you can speak to my lawyer. This discussion is over.”
    I stood, and stared at them, then said, slowly and quietly. “What I don’t understand is this. Just about every question you’ve asked me seems designed to blame me—the victim—or Dylan, who protected me. Why aren’t you asking questions about Randy Brewer? Why aren’t you interested in him? He’s the rapist!” My voice rose to a