A couple days ago, the investigator called me. He asked if I knew why he was calling. “No,” I lied.

He proceeded to detail the case file. “Ok, yes,” I interrupted him. “I know what you’re talking about.”

I gulped and hurried out of the newsroom in search of a quiet place where I wouldn’t be overheard (I work in a newsroom – that space doesn’t exist, but I ended up finding a corner on a dusty staircase that leads to a storage room).

The stairs were tucked away in the corner of a corridor – I didn’t realize how dusty they were until I sat down.

I heard the investigator: “I didn’t tell him what I wanted to talk to him about when I asked him to come in. I wanted to see what he would volunteer.”

“And?” I asked. “What did he say?”

“He told the same story you did, more or less, with the notable difference that he says when you told him to stop, he stopped.”

I could feel anger rising, but not as much as I thought there should be. I knew what his story was going to be.

“I was surprised too that when I told him why I wanted to talk to him, your name was not the first name that came up,” the investigator continued.

I wasn’t surprised to hear that – just heartbroken. I was too late.

“What I’m going to do is complete this file and send it to prosecution to see if there is enough evidence to press charges. I don’t know how long that’s going to take – maybe a couple months. Do you have any questions for me?”

What he was really saying was the likelihood of there being charges was slim, but the image of another girl – the girl I wanted to protect and didn’t – was all I could think about.

“At the very least you scared him. He knows the police are onto him. And he was very nervous and scared,” said the investigator, I suppose as a means to comfort me. “You did the right thing.”

I had nausiety – and it was really bad.

I tried to take Flayla for a run, but I was struck by nausea. I leaned over a park railing and started dry heaving. I wanted to puke. More than anything I wanted my body to let me puke so I could get it all out and start new, but the universe is cruel and I couldn’t.

This event – this thing…this moment, that has impacted me, for him is so insignificant. How is that possible?

And then, I’m ashamed to admit, I sunk this low: I am nothing, I thought. I am invisible. It was so much more important for him to get it from me than to care about me. What if others are the same way? What if Dustin doesn’t care about me either? How will I ever get over that?

I knew that wasn’t where I wanted to be, but right then, I couldn’t move past that.