He offered no apology, no explanation, and when I gasped in pain he continued without the slightest hesitation.

I finish crying, get to my feet, wash the tears from my face, brush my teeth…and try to decide what to do next. Because I’m sure as shit not going to climb back in his bed. I will not accept his next assault passively.

I put my ear to the door and listen.

He’s snoring. That should make me feel grateful, but it doesn’t.

It pisses me off.

How can he be so oblivious to my situation? I think about it a minute, then tell myself it doesn’t matter. It’s time to make a decision. Should I stay in here all night, climb in the tub, try to fall asleep?

No.

Because if he needs to pee in the middle of the night I’ll have to let him in and we’ll spend the next hour talking about what happened. And I truly don’t want to talk about it. Not now, not ever. So what’s left? Should I call Alison and see if she’ll let me stay with her and Jess? Should I run away? What should I do?

My inner voice provides the answer: David’s dead. All your plans have gone to shit. Call the police, Nicki. Report the rape.

4.

11:20 p.m.

I UNLOCK THE bathroom door, pad quietly across the room, retrieve my phone from the nightstand, take it back to the bathroom, and wonder if I should dial “O” for the operator, or just 911. I opt for 911, but before I press the first digit I remember something my friend Lexi once told me about rape and the law. Lexi, a gifted law student, said: “Legally, there’s a fine line between rape and rough sex that comes down to a single word: stop!” If Lexi happened to be here right now she’d ask, “At any time before or during the attack, did you tell him no? Did you resist his advances or fight him off? Did you tell him to stop?”

In other words, from a legal standpoint, Lexi would say what happened to me tonight was rough sex, not rape. And while I can make this phone call and ruin Michael’s life for a day or two, I’m the one that’s going to end up looking bad.

In retrospect, should I have told him to stop? Of course. But it all happened so quickly and unexpectedly, and I was so caught up in the emotional aftermath of David’s death and how it affected Michael—I was overwhelmed and startled at the same time. My empathy became his consent.

As I stare at my phone, wondering how often these silent assaults might occur in relationships, my screen lights up with an incoming text from Jessie, who wrote: Can’t sleep. Standing outside your door. Still awake?

I text back: Be right there, then exit the bathroom and use the light from my phone to illuminate my suitcase as I dig for clothes. I get dressed and slip out the door.

5.

Thursday

12:15 a.m.

“HOW’S YOUR MOM holding up?”

“I drugged her,” Jessie says, then laughs at my expression and adds, “With her permission, of course! Two sleeping pills, eight ounces of Grey Goose. Trust me, she’s totally zonked. And she’s gonna need it, since I doubt she’ll sleep four hours in the next four days.”

Jess and I are on the far side of the lobby, sitting on a luggage bench by the empty bell captain’s desk. She’s fidgeting, and her eyes are so swollen you’d think she’s DeNiro’s stunt double in Raging Bull. She wants to tell me something, but she’s holding back. So I make small talk till she says, “I assume Michael told you about Daddy.”

I want to ask “What about him?” but that seems callous.

“It’s so embarrassing!” she says.

“What is?”

She looks at me incredulously. “Michael didn’t tell you?”

“He’s said nothing. I don’t even know if your dad left a note.”

“He didn’t.”

I close my eyes and try to keep my relief from showing. But in my mind, I’m jumping up and down, doing a cheer. “What’s embarrassing?”

She says nothing, just shakes her head.

“Jessie?”

She says, “I’ll tell you, but you can’t look at me while I say it.”

“Okay,” I say, thinking What the fuck? I turn my head and fix my gaze on the lonely desk clerk reading a paperback on the opposite side of the lobby.

“Nicki?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t look at me till after I’ve said everything, okay?”

“Okay.”

She takes a deep breath, then says, “I’m the one who found the body.”

“Omigod, Jess!” I say, and nearly turn to comfort her, but she says, “Daddy would be horrified to know that. He thought I was playing golf at the club, but it was so cold I backed out and called Uber to get a ride home.”

I understand why she’d be shocked, horrified, or even physically sick to come home and find her dad swinging from a rope. But those weren’t the words she used.