Laura came over that Thursday night with a bottle of wine neither of us was going to open. Or so we thought. She had a Yale tote bag with her laptop, legal pads, and several folders of god knows what. There we sat at the dining room table nursing huge mugs of hot peppermint tea rather than sipping our usual chenin blanc. Staying sober was something we absolutely had to do; another serious issue had just cropped up. Fortunately, Isabelle was out working in the garage, so I filled Laura in on the situation with the invitation.
“Ridge Point,” I said. “That’s where Isabelle was invited to go on Saturday evening — to watch the sunset with some friends from the art department, along with Milo from her masterclass.” Instantly, Laura’s face mirrored the worry I felt in my gut. Without hesitation, she shoved her tea and the bottle of wine to the center of the table, then pulled out her laptop, flipped it open, and began typing furiously.
Using Google Earth Pro, Laura pulled up satellite images from the closest coordinates she knew of near that Ridge Point lookout, namely the house of her friend Londa, who lived less than a mile away. “Here we go — a public overlook. Paved parking,” Laura observed from the imagery. “From what I remember, the cell service is relatively strong up there, at least it was at Londa’s. Who’s going to be driving?”
“That’s the problem. Milo offered, and Isabelle readily accepted. Without hesitation.” Laura’s fingers stopped moving on the trackpad and started tapping loudly on the tabletop. “Milo Ross? Fuck.”
I continued: “Apparently he’s got a Forester; the seats are relatively high up, and the car has great shocks — this from Isabelle. She was trying to convince me everything was copacetic, not to worry — that this ride wouldn’t be too hard on her back, even on the rough roads up to the ridge. As if. Fuck — Isabelle’s discomfort is the least of my worries right now.”
“How very thoughtful of Milo,” Laura said flatly, grimacing. “I don’t believe any of this is real. Do you?”
“That doesn’t matter, does it? The point is that Isabelle really wants to go. And she’s been holed up in that garage for months. One good week at the gallery has given her a taste for what it’s like on the outside — a young person with their whole life in front of them. Connections, excitement. Not sure I’m up to dampening her enthusiasm.”
Laura slammed her laptop shut, sighed, crossed her arms, and shook her head. “Jeez, Louise. How did we get here? What is your gut telling you on this? As if I need to ask.”
“My gut says Isabelle needs to ride this one out. I don’t trust this fucker. Not one iota. I saw how he acted. I was there, in the art studio. Isabelle thinks it was nothing — just a brief bout of professional jealousy. She’s convinced he’s past it, that he considered her reaction and regretted being so arrogant. Apparently he apologized for his remarks.”
“What is your prefrontal cortex telling you?”
“Well, my amygdala is screaming ‘No! Don’t do it!’ while my prefrontal cortex is calmly telling me, ‘This doesn’t seem like a great plan.’ The problem is that the minute I express these concerns out loud to Isabelle, she’ll start lying to me. She’ll hide things— her feelings, her worries. And if the whole thing goes south, she’ll likely hide what happened, if, in fact, something bad did happen, and especially if she imagines she brought it on. Then, I’ve lost her completely. On this I’m positive.”
Laura went over to the china cabinet and pulled out two wine glasses, then poured both of us a glass of room temperature chenin blanc. Fuck the peppermint tea. We needed something stronger. “Do we know who else will be going?” she asked.
“Sam Okereke — he’s the fellowship painter — the one who complimented her work at the gallery. There’s a woman, Dara, whose schtick is sculpture and maybe someone named Finn, I think. Isabelle says they’re all meeting at the overlook, then heading back into town for pizza and beers after the sun has set.”
“So it’s a group thing?” Laura was trying to get the facts straight. “Apparently. And Milo? He’s just a guy with a car and a full tank of gas. At least that’s what Isabelle says,” I responded.
Laura took a sip of the wine and stared at her closed laptop. “Does anyone else have thoughts on this Milo character?” she asked. “Yeah, I called Sloane this afternoon. She says Milo’s been a model student all week. Polite. Deferential to Julian. He even rolled up his sleeves and helped Sam stretch a canvas.”
“He’s performing,” she countered. “Of course he’s performing,” I said. “But we can’t base our security protocol on the fact that we don’t like him. If we coax her out of every social situation that involves a man we consider a jerk, she may continue spending all of her time in the garage. This Milo stuff — I’m just going to chalk this up to his being emotionally immature. That’s how I’m coping with it. For the time being, at least.”
Laura knew I was right. Or did she? Her facial expressions did little to bolster my confidence.
“I say she takes the burner phone,” Laura asserted. “The location sharing stays on. If the dot moves even a tad off Ridge Point Road and onto one of the fire roads, I’m heading up there in my car. Will you be joining me?”
“Well, yeah,” I responded sarcastically, though my mind hesitated going there — to that scenario on the fire road — the one Laura was imagining in technicolor with 3D glasses. “I’m calling Sloane again. I want to know if there’s anything else she’s noticed about Milo in the last day or so — things she might have considered inconsequential when we last talked. I really think she needs to be aware of our concerns. I want to give her an idea of what we’re watching for — you know, the subtle hints.”
“This sounds like a compromise we can lay at the feet of our fantastical imaginations. Isabelle needs to be with her peers. Full stop. We need to be fully prepared for anything other than a normal night out,” Laura emphasized. She then reopened her laptop: “I’m going to pull up all the fire roads in that area and sketch out a map — you know — in case that dot moves.”
Saturday arrived, the weather crisp and clear, the kind of fall day we used to have as a matter of course, before climate change made the seasons less predictable. Today we were living in a 5-page spread — ‘Fall Harvest and Crush’ — straight out of Wine Country Today. It was really a glorious day, which made it impossible to stay indoors. I felt like doing anything that allowed me to be in the fresh air — air enhanced by the smell of wine grapes being crushed — that heady smell that filled the whole valley, including our backyard.
Isabelle had spent the morning and afternoon in the garage, with the door and windows wide open. We caught a glimpse of her working on some huge canvas, and though we hadn’t been invited in to look at it yet, we knew it was likely something spectacular. Periodically, Isabelle came out into the yard to take a few deep breaths, close her eyes, and direct her face toward the sun, soaking up its warmth. Whenever she was working like a maniac, she was in another world. Today, her clothes were askew, and she wore what I call her “painting pajamas”: an old T-shirt, no bra, and a tattered pair of Old Navy linen pants. She looked as if she’d just run the Boston Marathon — she was sweating profusely and was bent over at the waist, her arms dangling, head down — as if she were trying to regain her composure, all while stretching out and then reaching for her toes. When she finally stood up, I could see it: she was exhausted.
Contrary to what one might think, all of these were good signs. They meant she had been all in on her work —she was in a flurry of creativity, likely fueled by the knowledge she’d get to kick back with friends in the evening, and put back a few beers. The thought of getting out and having a bit of fun had to be freeing. She had to look forward to, a good thing that didn’t intersect with all the shit she’d been dealing with as of late.
At the end of the afternoon, Isabelle headed into the outdoor shower we’d improvised in the backyard, a simple setup with a plastic pallet and three 4’ x 8’ redwood fence panels. Who knew Laura was an expert at digging holes and pouring cement? We installed a showerhead on the middle panel and ran two hoses through the garage window, which we hooked up to the hot and cold faucets on the utility sink. Laura then fashioned a steel rod between the two outside panels and hung a spiffy waffle weave shower curtain across the pole for privacy. Nothing like showering under that huge Valley Oak in the invigorating fall air. We’d all tried it out, but ultimately, the shower was Isabelle’s special spot, not ours. It was a place for her to meditate and quell her anxiety whenever she so desired.
After nearly a half hour of luxuriating under the rainfall showerhead — with steam floating up into branches of the oak and oodles of suds spilling out into a French drain on the perimeter of the shower — Isabelle reluctantly ended her ablutions. She grabbed her bucket of shower supplies, threw on her robe, and headed into the garage to finish getting ready. When finally she was done blow-drying, applying makeup, and putting together a feminine ensemble, she looked to be a different person altogether — refreshed, relaxed, rejuvenated. And truth be told, she’d gotten a bit of her “sexy” back. Maybe more than a bit. The delicate gold hoops from Basti added to the effect, highlighting her beautiful, tiny ears.
Isabelle’s attire for the evening: stylish dark jeans, black cowboy boots, and a white gauze button-down shirt loose enough to accommodate the brace without looking too masculine. Isabelle’s short auburn hair was blown out and texturized with a bit of rosemary essential oil, the loose ends on the sides tucked behind her ears. Her makeup included the slightest bit of mascara and some tinted lip balm, which gave her lips just a hint of color. This was the first cosmetic gesture Isabelle had made since cutting her hair. Tonight she was clearly going for a feminine vibe, a very natural one. Was this for Milo? I was hoping not.
“You look beautiful,” I said, radiating with pride.
“I feel like I’m sneaking out,” she said apologetically as she pulled her denim trucker jacket off the back of a dining room chair, “Which is a bit silly considering I’m twenty-four years old and you’ve literally given me your blessing on this whole thing, like a dozen times.” I laughed, but not too hard. “Mom, I really hope we can stop doing this dance. I’ve just got to do what I feel like doing, without always having to weigh all your neuroses every time I go to make a decision.”
“I know, I know. I will try to do better. But you do have your phone, right?” I asked quickly, hoping she’d not noticed I was already breaking my promise. “Yes,” she responded impatiently. “Is it set for location sharing?” I queried, hesitating. “Yep. I checked it twice, Mom,” she answered with growing irritation.
Then she turned to face me — “Mom, I know the drill. I will text you if anything’s off. I will get to a public place if I sense a problem — at least as public as I can manage out in the sticks. So, that would be like me standing in the middle of the main road. I won’t get in a car alone with anyone other than Milo, or one of the women in the group. I’ve got this, ok?”
“When is Milo picking you up?”
“At five. He said he’d park right out front.” I carefully examined her face for any doubt or worry. “Mom. It’s fine! Please stop. Finn and Dara are already up there. Annie’s driving separately. It’s a meet-up with people I know, half of whom are women.”
“Alrighty. I’ll shut up.”
“Why do you look like you’re sending me into a war zone?” she asked.
I was embarrassed for being so paranoid. But there was nothing I could do to stave off the PTSD. So, I kissed her forehead, told her to go have fun, and then watched from the window as she walked down the four steps from the front porch to the cement path, moving ever so carefully to avoid jarring her spine. She then sat on the end of the cheek wall, waiting for her ride.
Milo’s green Forester pulled up exactly at five. He got out, met Isabelle halfway down the path, gave her a quick, brotherly hug, then walked ahead to open the passenger door and helped ease her into the seat with what appeared to be genuine consideration for her limitations. I couldn’t help myself — I felt compelled to come out and say “hi” to Milo. What I really wanted was for him to feel my eyes on him. I wanted him to know that I knew what car he was driving and had seen his license plate. Conversely, I wanted to convey, if insincerely, that I trusted him to take my daughter out for the evening. Whether he got the real message or the pretend message — eh, that didn’t matter. Either way, I had even more information about him, and was better prepared for whatever the evening might deliver.
Up close, I observed all the fine details. These would be important, though I didn’t know it at the time. Milo was outfitted perfectly from head to toe. He had on a dark green Ashby Wax jacket over a cream cashmere V-neck sweater, FRAME jeans, and Berluti hiking boots. Holy toots — those boots had never seen a hiking trail. Milo’s honey-brown hair caught the late-afternoon sun and was brushed back from his face. He had coiffed it with expensive styling gel that smelled of sandalwood. And his hands — they were perfectly manicured. Not a hair out of place, not a single hangnail. Milo might have been irresistible to some women, but not to me. There was a breed of woman that fell for all this peacocking — the impeccable manners, the chiseled profile, the slender physique, the designer togs. Think Jared Kushner.
To my mind’s eye, something was off with this guy, and though I couldn’t put my finger on what it was exactly, I would say this: Milo was decidedly not sexy. He had no twinkle in his eye, no wry smile, no spring in his step. His eyes were dead and unblinking; he smiled overly, and his gait was oddly practiced and graceful, as if he’d had years of ballet training. Odd for a young man. And his whole demeanor — well, it came off as intimidating, despite all his compliments about my flower beds and his reassurances that he would “have Isabelle back by no later than 10.” Any strong, healthy woman would have seen through this gallant artifice and his stupid script. Milo was a cheesy stereotype, the love interest from some sappy Hallmark movie.
Milo’s narcissism, while not blatant, was right there in plain view: his obsession with expensive, recognizable labels and his skin — which was far too smooth for a man of his age. He had not a single blemish or scar, and his hands showed no sign of manual labor or rigorous sport. Nothing about Milo was real. Not even his smell — he had no smell — at least, no smell of his own. Did he not sweat? Did he not give off pheromones? There was only the scent of expensive soap and cologne. Nice smells, don’t get me wrong, but they did little to convince me that anything about this young man was authentic.
I stood at the window for nearly fifteen minutes after the Subaru pulled away from the curb, then disappeared from view. A cold prickle of unease spread across the back of my neck. This was going to be a long night.
At six-fifteen, my phone buzzed. Mom, I’m up at the point. The view is insane. Sam brought a sketchpad and pastels, and Dara’s complaining about Lichter. I’ve said nothing. All is good. A picture of the friends with the sunset in the background followed the message. It was a beautiful sunset and a good-looking bunch of young people.
I checked the location sharing. The blue dot sat right where it should: Ridge Point Overlook, which the map showed at an elevation of 2,400 feet. I texted back. Have fun. Maybe check back in at 7 so I don’t lose my mind.
At seven-fifteen, my phone buzzed again. The sun just set, so we’re heading down the hill to get pizza and beers at Alfredo’s. I should be home at 10. There was that blue dot—at the exact same spot as before — at the Overlook. At seven forty-five, I checked on it again. The dot had not moved. Then again at 8:00, I looked. The dot was still there.
Was it time to panic? Yes, it was. Because not only was my daughter’s cell phone still at the Outlook, but I remembered an important detail — how could I have missed it? Milo had called my daughter Isabelle. As we stood in front of my house, he’d said: “I’ll have Isabelle home by 10.” How could he have known that was her name? He’d been told she was Izzy. He’d been calling her that all week, along with everyone else in the masterclass. His calling her “Isabelle” was like someone inadvertently calling their best friend Eddie, “Edward.” An odd mistake. One that should never have happened. Isabelle had never offered up her full first name to Milo; that meant he would have had to guess whether “Izzy” was short for Isadora, Elizabeth, or Isabelle. Or any other similar name. No, that fucker knew who my Isabelle was. Full stop.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I was dancing around the living room. What to do? How could this be? Or was this just a big nothing burger? No, it was not. That name thing — that was a clue to something, a connection Milo had to Isabelle — one that she was totally unaware of. Something was really off.
All I could think of was why Isabelle’s phone would still be up at that outlook. It was surely pitch black up there by now. Plus, she had texted just an hour ago that they were heading down the hill.
I tried calling Isabelle’s number. As expected, it rang and rang, then went to voicemail. I tried texting. Where are you, baby girl? There was no response. Then I tried calling the only other person I knew from this group: Sam. Sam, fortunately, responded immediately. We are already at Alfredo’s. Haven’t seen Milo and Izzy yet, but expect they will turn up any minute. I’ll tell her to give you a buzz when she gets here.
Another fifteen minutes passed. There was no buzz from Isabelle or anyone else, for that matter. Location sharing showed the blue dot still at the Outlook.
Panicked, I called Laura and gave her the details. She was horrified at what all of this might mean, but not surprised. She was ready to spring into action: “I’m coming to pick you up in five minutes. Meet me at the curb.” John was out of town on business, so I texted him to fill him in on what was happening, asking him to be on alert and ready to call the police if it were to come to that.
Laura came prepared. She’d taped her hand-drawn map of the fire roads onto the dashboard, and printed out Street View images of the entrances to all but the most primitive, undrivable roads. Yes, Milo had a Subaru, but even his Yokohama Geolandars couldn’t make it down those roads.
All of Ridge Point Rd. was unlit, and we’re talking all the way to the top of the mountain, and even at the intersections where the rough, unmaintained logging roads met up with the blacktop. Within twenty minutes we were at the Outlook, and in the headlights, we could see Isabelle’s phone shining in the gravel. I got out and picked it up. The screen had been crushed by what looked to be a boot. The prints were crisp and deep, made by boots with newish, sharp treads. And then I saw this — the faint outline of a word: Berluti. Milo’s boots. My heart sank. With flashlights, Laura and I made a quick sweep of the entire Outlook; perhaps there were no other clues as to what might have happened. There were no fresh tire tracks indicating anyone had continued up the mountain. It would appear that Milo, with Isabelle in tow, had followed friends down the hill — only they never made it to the restaurant.
So, we got back in the car and made our way down the hill, stopping at every fire road intersection to inspect the side roads for fresh tire tracks. After five stops, we’d nearly given up, but the sixth intersection proved fruitful in the way of clues — there were the fresh tracks we’d been looking for. We followed them.
A couple of miles in, we came upon a spot with a troubling tale to tell. There, the Subaru, which was nowhere in sight, had clearly turned around, then pulled onto the side of the road between a row of trees. On the side of the disrupted dirt road were Isabelle’s jacket and a baseball bat with blood on it. These were chilling details. They had been here. Something untoward had happened.
We got out of the car and shouted for her, then spent the next half an hour pacing up and down the road looking for her – was she dead or alive? Perhaps she was just unconscious. We had to find her. Where was she? Partway through our panicked search, I tried calling John. There was no reception. This felt hopeless.
I gathered up everything left at the site, then set one of Laura’s printed pages in the dirt and weighed it down with a large rock. We, or the police, would need to be able to find this spot in the light of day. Similarly, we marked the spot at the intersection of the fire road and Ridge Point Rd., then swiftly headed down the road, looking for any clues that might shed light on Isabelle’s whereabouts and the location of Milo’s Subaru. I was filled with terror. It seemed my worst nightmares had been realized.
The sunset views from the overlook had been perfect, the weather pleasantly cool. While Sam sat on a rock wall and sketched, Dara and Izzy jabbered about the art department at the college, each critiquing the teachers they’d had classes with — who was inspiring, who was boring beyond belief, and then the topic of Gordon Lichter reared its ugly head. Dara had heard nightmare stories about his conduct toward his female students and was wondering what Izzy knew. Izzy, not wanting to reveal her own experiences with him, feigned ignorance, mentioning only that her sculpture professor had an obsession with Brancusi.
Finn showed up late with a 12-pack of craft beer he was a year too young to buy, and then he and Milo took to popping the caps off enough bottles for everyone present. Soon everyone was sitting on the stone wall, beer in hand, dangling their feet over the edge, looking down the steep precipice to what would have been a deadly fall had anyone lost their balance. These young folks were still in the careless phase of early adulthood, under the illusion of invulnerability. There they sat for nearly an hour, laughing, drinking, and watching the light change from gold to rose to deep purple.
Milo had been as charming and funny as they come. He’d complimented Sam’s drawings, asked Dara intelligent questions about her work, made everyone laugh with a story about Julian accidentally setting his own painting on fire with a cigarette during a demonstration at that week’s masterclass. For an hour and a half, Isabelle felt normal.
When the sun finally dropped behind the western ridge, Dara climbed off the wall and stretched. “I’m starving. Is anyone else? Who’s ready for pizza?” Everyone chimed in. They were ready to eat, and ready to get the hell out of there before it got any darker and cooler, thank you very much.
“I’m driving by myself,” Finn said. “I’ve got to pick up my girlfriend.”
“Sam, you’re with me,” said Dara. “And Izzy, you’re with Milo, is that right?”
“Sure is,” she said, turning to Milo to confirm: “You’re still good to drive me?”
“But of course, silly girl.” He smiled. “Let’s get out of here.”
Milo and Isabelle watched the other cars start down the road before getting into the Subaru — Milo once again helping Izzy into her seat. That was odd; Izzy was sure she’d left her phone in the cupholder, but it wasn’t there. Perhaps it was in her purse, which she’d stowed in the back. She’d have to wait until they got to the restaurant to text her mother.
Reality was that Milo had palmed the phone while helping Isabelle with her seatbelt. And then, as he made his way back to the driver’s side of the car, he’d dropped it in the gravel and crushed it with his boot. With the taillights of all the other cars out of view and the phone gone, the coast was clear. Milo was ready to execute his plan — the one he’d been crafting since Izzy’s cruel comments to him that first day of their masterclass. That bitch was not getting away with humiliating him. He was tired of pretending to make nice. He was ready to teach her a lesson. One she would not soon forget.
As they made their way down the hill, Izzy, oblivious to what Milo had in store for her, was making animated chit-chat. She was pleased to have come up to the Outlook. This had been a fun outing.
And then, suddenly, the fun was over. Without warning, Milo swerved left onto one of the rough, unpaved fire roads. The road was heavily wooded, without a single dwelling in sight. This detour of Milo’s was dark and foreboding — Izzy was confused. Why were they taking this route? And could he possibly slow down? Please! Milo’a rough driving over potholes and large rocks was really hurting Izzy’s back. Even after airing her grievances, Milo said nothing, did nothing to improve the situation. He was ignoring her. It was as if he was concentrating so deeply that all he could see was what was in front of him. It would seem he’d not heard one word of what she was saying.
Then, a shallow clearing appeared in front of them. Milo slowed down, turned the car around, but rather than heading back to the main road, he pulled off to the side, sitting with his hands on the steering wheel for several minutes before killing the headlights.
“What the hell are you doing?” asked Izzy in the same voice she’d used when chastising him in class. That’s all he needed to hear. That voice. He threw open his door and came around to her side of the car, then opened her door and said, “You can either get out by yourself, or I’ll yank you out. Get the fuck out of the car.” Izzy looked at him in disbelief. What was happening?
Izzy reached over to unlatch her seatbelt, and as she did so, she saw the wooden baseball bat. There it sat on the floor behind the driver’s seat. She pretended to be struggling with her seatbelt as she reached over and grabbed it. Fortunately, the interior of the car was dark, and by some miracle, Milo had not seen it in her hand. He grabbed her right wrist and yanked her out of her seat. She managed to swing her legs around and get them underneath herself before being pulled into a fully upright position. Once outside the car, she discreetly hid the bat behind her back. It was dark. Milo was stoked up and out of control. He saw nothing.
Milo then dragged Izzy to the front of the Subaru, pulling her by her right wrist. He then presented a knife and declared that if she tried to escape, he would stab her and leave her for dead. She believed him; oh yes, she did — Milo was insane. That was clear. She gripped the bat fiercely, believing this weapon was key to her staying alive.
Milo then proceeded to unzip her pants and yanked her jeans and underwear down to her ankles, making it impossible for her to run away without tripping. He then unzipped his own pants, a huge hard-on popping out the top of his boxers. Fortunately, Isabelle couldn’t see Milo’s face or body, but she could feel him — the weight of him, his hands grabbing her and positioning her to his liking. But she did not panic. She thought only of how she would survive. If she resisted what he was about to do, it might damage her spine. She was trapped — forced to remain as immobile as possible. It was bad enough — all his shoving her about. She had to do everything in her power to keep things from escalating.
And Milo knew this. He knew she was vulnerable, that she couldn’t escape from him without hurting herself further. So he spread her legs confidently, and he gave to it her. He was rough, the sex clearly painful, and he enjoyed every minute of it. Izzy was not prepared for what Milo was doing — there really was no way to prepare for something like that — all of this was unwanted intimacy. But she said nothing; Milo had the knife and could use it at any moment. And there was no point in screaming. They were in the middle of nowhere.
As Milo went about his business, the fury built up inside of Izzy. With each thrust, she imagined what she would do with that baseball bat once his back turned. She counted exactly how many times he’d shoved himself up into her. She was going to match him blow for blow. She could feel the strength building in her arms, the adrenaline rushing through her body. He imagined he was crushing her, but he was doing just the opposite. He was adding fuel to the fire. Izzy could hardly wait for her turn to return the violent favor. Suddenly, after fifteen thrusts, Milo grunted like a pig, and then she felt it. He was done. The fucker was done. And he’d left a considerable mess on her jeans.
Milo, depleted, put his hands, palms down, on the hood of the car on either side of Izzy’s hips and exhaled his awful breath onto her face. His face was inches from hers; he wanted to see her reaction, but it was dark, so he conjured an image in his mind. He imagined Izzy was destroyed. He’d crushed her. She would never be the same. He smiled.
Izzy, confident and waiting for her special moment, feared only that Milo would feel the bat. But he did not. He stood up, pulled up his pants, and left her there sitting on the front end of the Forester. He then stumbled over to the nearest line of trees to take a piss.
Izzy quickly pulled up her pants and zipped them. After regaining her balance, she took a deep breath and grabbed the bat with both hands. She knew just how to grip a baseball bat. She’d been the only girl in Little League and had won the game ball more than once. Izzy quietly walked up behind Milo, raised her arms, then brought the bat down on his left shoulder with all that she had. Milo, stunned, spun around, his halfway-down jeans nearly causing him to trip. Izzy took two steps backward as Milo lurched forward to grab the bat, at which point she brought it down on his extended arm. There was a loud crack, followed by howling. Milo crumbled to the ground, cradling his left arm. He was incapacitated.
But Izzy was not done. As he was raping her, Izzy had promised herself she’d give him exactly what he’d given her. He’d ripped her from stem to stern, and she was bruised inside and out. He thrust his unwanted dick into her fifteen times, then filled her with his disgusting cum. He’d not bothered with a condom or to ask if she was on birth control. No one would believe she’d been raped. Not by someone as handsome and talented as Milo. No way.
And who knew what he’d done to her spine. Izzy could still feel her legs and arms, thank god, but what would be the long-term ramifications of having been thrown about? As this went through her head, Izzy reached through the driver’s seat window and turned on the headlights. There was Milo in the spotlight, writhing in the dirt. She insisted he watch the rest of this show. She wanted him to see her face and how fearless she was, even after what he’d done. She wanted to leave him with an image he wouldn’t be able to get out of his mind. He was going to be the one with nightmares, not her.
“Here you go fucker,” she said sullenly. “Just thirteen more blows to match the fifteen you gave me. When I’m done, you won’t be getting anyone pregnant, at least not for a good, long while. And then she went to town, though subsequent blows would only yield bruises, and she intentionally kept them away from areas where they might be visible were he to wear a long-sleeved shirt and pants. So, no blows to his head or neck. This beating was to be his private shame, his private pain. This was the sort of thing he’d clearly done to many women. He was slick, he was practiced, and he really got off on hurting them. She’d experienced it. This was not his first rodeo.
Tonight, all of that would come to an end.
Izzy’s final blow was to Milo’s right hand, which held the knife. The knife immediately fell out of his grip. She kicked away from him, then bent down, closed it, and pocketed it. She then threw the bat far out of Milo’s reach and ordered him to get into the passenger seat. She wanted him up front where she could keep an eye on him. Milo, beaten to with an inch or his life, was absolutely miserable, holding his junk with both hands and groaning all the way down the hill.
Izzy deposited Milo and his car at the entrance to the emergency room, then walked home. She really didn’t care what story he would concoct to explain his injuries. If he dared to involve her in any of this, his spunky DNA all over her jeans and her ripped posterior fourchette would set the record straight. She’d been raped.
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