When David Died: A True Story

  “Do you have any regrets?”

  That caught her by surprise. “About what?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, like you said, Michael and I are pretty young, and this is a big decision. I guess I’m wondering if you regret any decisions you made, or didn’t make.”

  She thought about it for a moment, then said, “Nothing major comes to mind.”

  “Even when you were my age? Or younger? Was there anything you wanted to do that you didn’t? Or, thinking back on it, was there anything you would have done differently if you had the chance?”

  She smiled. “Such a serious question!”

  “I’m sorry. I know that was terribly personal.”

  “Not at all,” she said. “I’ve been very fortunate. Whether on purpose or by accident, I’m pretty comfortable with the decisions I’ve made. So far, at least.”

  “So, no regrets?”

  “Not really. Nothing worth mentioning. But Nicki? Try not to put too much pressure on yourself. Take your time. Don’t force the decision. For now, just agree to think about getting back with Michael.”

  “Okay.”

  She kissed my cheek. “Michael’s not the only Thorne who loves you, Nicki. We all do. And if things don’t work out between you guys, I hope you know we’ll always consider you part of the family. I’m sure Michael will, too.”

  I hugged her like she saved my life, then asked, “Would it be okay if I call David sometime this week to get his perspective about how Michael views our future?”

  “That’s a good idea. I’m sure he’d be glad to take your call.”

  “What about Jessie?”

  “Jessie?”

  “Before I head back to Louisville I’d like to reassure her that no matter what happens with Michael I’ll always be there for her.”

  “That’s so thoughtful!” she said. “Of course you should tell her that.”

  And so I did, and it was the last time I stepped foot on these grounds until tonight. Now, exiting Michael’s car, we find our path blocked by a police detective named Broadus, who tells us we can’t enter the house until the police conclude their initial investigation.

  “I’m the son,” Michael says.

  Detective Broadus checks his notepad. “Michael?”

  “Yes.”

  He looks at me. “And you’re Nicki Hill?”

  “Yes sir.”

  He stares at me like he’s been in prison and I’m the first woman he’s seen since getting released. And when he says, “Michael, stay put. Nicki, come with me,” my stomach drops. I look at Michael, hoping he’ll intervene, or at least accompany me, but his eyes are tracking Alison and Jessie, who are heading toward him with blankets around their shoulders and a paramedic in tow. What strikes me most about the Thorne women tonight is their curious facial expressions. While clearly distraught, they also seem…embarrassed. I spin around, leaving Detective Broadus behind, and rush to their sides, hug them, and tell them how sorry I am. By then Michael’s hugging Jessie, waiting to console his mom, and I feel like an outsider. From behind me Broadus says, “Miss Hill? We need to talk. Now.”

  He leads me fifty yards away from the others and stops beside what I assume is his car. Then he gives me a no-nonsense look and says, “How would you describe your relationship with David Thorne?”

  I stare at Broadus a minute, trying to read his thoughts. Then say, “We were cordial.”

  “Cordial?”

  “Yes sir. I mean, he and Alison—Mrs. Thorne—have been like parents to me.”

  “Were you sleeping with him?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s a simple question, Miss Hill. What I’m asking, were you fucking him?”

  “What? Are you serious?”

  “Yes or no, please. But do yourself a favor: don’t lie. Because we’ll know the truth soon enough, and if you’re lying, it’ll come back to bite you.”

  “Whoa. Are you for real right now?”

  “This is as real as it gets, sweetheart. Got an answer for me?”

  I feel like I just walked into the middle of a foreign movie with no subtitles. This detective asks about my relationship, and I tell him David’s been like a father to me, and his first question is, have I been fucking him? That’s sick. I mean, has he been fucking his parents?

  I tell Broadus exactly what I’m thinking: “This is crazy.”

  “I agree,” he says. “But answer the question. And do so with total honesty.”

  3.

  8:22 p.m.

  I’VE SEEN ENOUGH murder mysteries on TV to know anything I say can be used against me, so I take a few seconds to compose my thoughts before answering. Then I stand straight and tall, look him in the eye and say, “David was my fiancée’s father. I never had an affair with him, nor would I. My ‘relationship’ with him, as you call it, was nonexistent, outside of a few family dinners and outings.”

  “You’ve never met him away from the family?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just the two of you?”

  I nearly say no, but catch myself. “We had coffee once.”

  “When was that?”

  “About three months ago.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “Michael and I had recently broken up and the Thornes wanted me to reconsider. I met with each of them one-on-one: Alison, Jessie, and David.”

  “And where did this meeting with David take place?”

  “Starbucks.”

  “Which one?”

  I tell him, then ask, “What’s this about?”

  “Really, Miss Hill? The man died today. We’re investigating it.”

  “We were told he hanged himself.”

  He stares at me, saying nothing, so I ask, “Is that not what happened?”

  “How about I ask the questions?”

  I shrug.

  He says, “Where else had you met Mr. Thorne?”

  “Like I said: family get-togethers.”

  “Did you ever meet him in private? Just the two of you?”

  “No. Just…”

  “Yes?”

  “That time at Starbucks.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Yes. Are we done here?”

  “Almost.”

  He removes his phone from his pants pocket, searches for something, finds it, and tilts the screen so I can see it. “Wait,” he says. “Let me adjust the brightness.” After doing so he says, “We found this photo on David’s phone. Can you explain it to me?”

  “Of course. That’s me, taking a selfie with Mr. Thorne.”

  “And where were you at the time?”

  “In a restaurant, with his family.”

  He frowns, so I explain: “It was Christmas weekend. Look: you can see Jessie in the background.”

  He stares at the photo like it’s his wife with another guy. Finally, I ask: “Why are you grilling me about this?”

  “You think I’m grilling you? Believe me, if I ever start grilling you, you’ll know it.”

  “I know it already. You keep accusing me of having an affair with my fiancée’s father even after I’ve denied it. You’re making it sound like an innocent photo is murder evidence. Am I a murder suspect?”

  “Should you be?”

  I roll my eyes. “Of course not. I’m 112 pounds with clothes on. How could I possibly hang a 220-pound man?”

  “You know his exact weight?”

  “Everyone does. He was obsessed with his weight. Talked about it all the time.” When Broadus says nothing I ask, “Can I go now?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  I turn away, but before I take the first step he says, “One last thing.”

  I sigh, then turn to face him.

  “What did you do to make David so angry?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “As I said, the photo I showed you came from his phone. But he kept a printed copy in a frame.”

  “So?”

  “Why would he keep a f
ramed photo of the two of you?”

  “He was being polite.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “After I took the photo I emailed him a copy. Later on I printed it, put it in a frame, and sent it with a message thanking him for including me at their family event.”

  “You’re saying he felt obligated to keep it?”

  “That’s my guess.”

  “And did you take a selfie with Alison as well?”

  “I wanted to, but she hates selfies. So no. But I did send her a gift and thank you note for making me feel so welcome at Christmas.”

  “What was the gift?”

  “Laser-cut thank you notes.”

  He writes it down in his pad and stares at it while I wait for him to speak. When he doesn’t, I ask, “Why are you making such a big deal out of my stupid selfie picture?”

  “We found it on the floor, across the room from his body.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do we. But it appears the last thing David Thorne did before hanging himself was throw your selfie across the room so hard it smashed the frame and put a dent the wall. Any idea why he might do that?”

  “No. But…”

  “Yes?”

  “At least I understand why you’re asking these crazy questions.”

  “Have you heard the circumstances concerning the body? How he was found?”

  “I only heard he hanged himself.”

  I look at him for an explanation, but all he says is, “I’m sure the others will tell you.”

  I walk back to where Michael and his family had been, but Jessie’s the only one there. She’s as distraught as I’d expect, which makes me wonder why Alison and Michael aren’t comforting her.

  “Where’s your mom?”

  “She and Michael are talking. They told me to wait for you, and said when you were done with the detective maybe we could hang together. Can we?”

  I cringe at her use of the word hang, and wait to see if she realizes what she said. But she doesn’t, so I say: “Of course. Want to walk a bit?”

  She does, so we head down the long driveway and turn right at the road and continue till we reach the end of their fence line. Then I ask, “What’s your mom talking to Michael about?”

  “I’m not sure, but they’re definitely up to something.”

  “Like what?”

  “I think they’re talking about the insurance…and about you.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “I don’t know. Something about what the detectives were asking.”

  “I see. Is there anything you want to ask me?”

  “No, but…I might want to talk to you about something else.” She hastens to add, “But I’m not ready yet.”

  “That’s fine. Whenever you’re ready, just let me know.”

  “Thanks, Nicki.”

  Two local news vans race past us with their flashers on. We watch them drive right up to the edge of the Thorne’s driveway, and park.

  “We’d better head back,” I say.

  Jessie agrees, and by the time we get there the news crews are standing in the front yard, shooting video footage.

  “Assholes!” I say. “Act like we’re gawkers, not family members.”

  “How do gawkers act?”

  “I don’t know, actually.”

  Despite the seriousness of the occasion, she giggles. As we walk past the reporters she calls out, “Don’t film us. We’re not part of the family. We’re just gawkers.”

  When we find Michael and Alison he says “The police finally let us go inside, so Mom packed some things so you guys can stay with us at a hotel for the night.”

  “Preferably one that’s at least ten miles away,” Alison says. “We’ll try to get some sleep and deal with all this in the morning.”

  “What about Daddy?” Jessie says.

  Alison looks at Michael. He says, “The coroner’s office has assumed temporary custody of his body till they decide whether or not to hold an official inquest.”

  “What’s that?”

  “An official meeting where they try to establish the manner of death. In other words, was it a suicide, a homicide, or an accident?”

  “We should be there.”

  “There’s nothing we can do,” Alison says. “But they told us we could see him late tomorrow or anytime Friday. In the meantime, I’ve packed what you need for the night. We should get whatever sleep we can, because tomorrow’s going to be awful.”

  Michael and I decide on the Griffin Gate Marriott and he drives the four of us there. We book a room for Alison and Jessie, and one for ourselves, and help them settle in. Since no one feels like going to the hotel restaurant, Michael orders room service for us, and when it arrives we eat in stony silence. After dinner he and I go to our room and he says, “Dad was our rock. I can’t believe he’s gone.” He sits on the bed and suddenly bursts into tears. I do what I can to comfort him and before I know it he’s climbing all over me, pulling off my clothes, pinning me beneath him, forcing me to…I’m shocked and stunned and…I’m serious: he’s sexually assaulting me! I want no part of it, but…I lie there and bite my lip and absorb each angry thrust until he finally collapses on top of me, exhausted and spent.

  Dazed, and in considerable pain, I slide out from under him and trudge on unsteady legs to the bathroom and lock the door. My thighs are shaking so violently I have to lean my elbows on the sink in order to gradually work myself down onto the toilet. Now, sitting here, I expect to feel some measure of relief, but for whatever reason the act of sitting enhances the pain. I reach up and grab the large towel from the towel rod and press it into my face and mouth to keep my crying as silent as possible, then wonder why I even care about being quiet. I should march in there and pummel him with my fists! I’m hurt, humiliated, and thoroughly disillusioned by the man who—just hours ago—professed his undying love in a coffee shop over a fucking latte.

  I want to scream at him for—is it too much to say? That he basically raped me?

  No. It wasn’t a ‘basically’ sort of thing. He absolutely raped me. My insides are on fire! I take a deep breath and pee, and it stings like crazy. I look down, expecting blood in the toilet, but thankfully there’s none. But when I wipe there’s some spotting. Not much, and not from the pee, but he obviously tore me up enough to create some small fissures.

  I look through the bag I stuffed with everything I might need for a multi-day trip and find an old pill box with two leftover Percocets. I take one for the pain, and tell myself not to overreact. Of course he wasn’t in his right mind. He just lost his father, and it wasn’t a sudden death, it was suicide, and obviously that’s a million times harder to process.

  I get all that.

  But it still doesn’t give him a free pass to brutalize me. Because if I’m supposed to rationalize what he did and accept it under the heading of ‘he just lost his father’, then what if I hadn’t been here tonight? Would he have had the right to go down to the lobby bar and rape some other poor woman?

  No. And nor do I believe he would have done that.

  So yes, I’m taking it personally. And I’ll never be able to view him the same way again, because what does it say about a man whose first response to tragedy is physically assaulting his fiancée?

  The more I think about it, the angrier I get. 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.”