Chapter 3: The Coerced Confession

The mother kept pressing, over and over: “It was him who took you to the basement and took off your pants, right?”

Her voice grew sharper each time, drilling the same question into the child’s skull. The girl’s hands twisted in her dress, eyes darting everywhere but at me.

Her vicious tone frightened the little girl into sobbing. “Mommy, no... he didn’t. I promise.”

The little girl’s voice was tiny, nearly swallowed by her own sobs. She hiccupped, burying her face in her mom’s coat, her words barely audible. My heart twisted with something between relief and despair.

My friend couldn’t take it anymore. “The kid already said no. Why are you forcing her? Look at her—look how scared she is. Do you always treat her like this?”

Derek’s voice was low but angry. He knelt down to eye level with the little girl, trying to calm her, then stood and fixed the mother with a look that could melt steel. I’d never seen him this furious before.

The officer next to us looked like he wanted to step in, but held back.

He shifted his weight, glancing between the mother and the crying girl, hesitating. He looked like he wanted to intervene but wasn’t sure if he should.

The mother immediately started shouting, gripping the child’s shoulders tightly and staring at her. “Say it! Tell mommy! Did he touch you?”

The girl whimpered under her mother’s iron grip. Derek took a step forward, but the officer put a hand out, shaking his head, silently urging patience. Everyone in the lobby was watching now, tension wound tight as a coiled spring.

The girl cried, her voice muffled through her sobs. “It was him... he touched me,” her words trembling between sobs.

The words tumbled out, barely more than a whisper, her body wracked with sobs. The whole room froze. The mother seized on it immediately, face wild with vindication.

The mother’s eyes lit up, and she turned excitedly to the cops. “Officer, did you hear that? My daughter said it herself—it was him! He’s a rapist! Arrest him, now!”

She pointed at me with a trembling finger, her voice cracking with both triumph and fury. The officers’ faces hardened, but they didn’t move.

My friend cut her off sharply. “Enough! The kid’s only three, and you’re leading her—how can she answer right? She’ll say whatever you want her to say. If you told her the sky was green, she’d agree just to make you stop yelling.”

Derek’s words hung in the air, loud enough to snap some of the bystanders out of their trance. Even the officer behind the desk raised an eyebrow.

The mother became agitated. “She’s three, she understands things, and besides, kids don’t lie!”

Her hands shook as she spoke. I could see the exhaustion in her eyes, anger and fear locked in a vicious cycle. She hugged her daughter tighter, as if holding her was the only way to keep her safe.

She doubled down, her voice sharp as broken glass.

She stomped her foot, jabbing her finger at Derek, then at me, like she wanted to blame the whole world. I heard someone mutter, "Let the cops do their job," but nobody intervened.

Suddenly, she looked like she was about to get physical.

She took a step toward Derek, arm raised, ready to swing again. I braced myself, but Derek just stood his ground, glaring back.

“Don’t even think about it!” My friend is a big guy—when he gets angry, he’s intimidating. He glared at her, and the mother shrank back immediately.

Derek’s voice boomed in the hallway, and for the first time, the mother hesitated. She pulled her daughter closer, her confidence flickering.

She turned to the cops for help. “Officer, he… he wants to hit me! Aren’t you going to do something?”

Her voice turned thin and brittle, seeking protection. The officer, stone-faced, kept his eyes on her.

The officer replied, “All I saw was you scratching his face and drawing blood.”

He pointed at Derek’s cheek, still red and raw. The mother’s mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out.

The mother scoffed, “He deserved it.”

Her words were petty, her anger shifting into something smaller and meaner. She crossed her arms, daring anyone to contradict her.

It took some time for the cops to check the security footage, so while we waited—

The old vending machine buzzed near the bulletin board covered in faded missing dog flyers and a poster for the local blood drive. My throat burned with each minute. Derek sat beside me, elbows on knees, hands restless. I could tell he wanted to punch a wall, but he settled for chewing the inside of his cheek.

My friend and I have known each other since we were kids, back when we played in the mud together.

We grew up in the same part of town—fishing in the creek, biking down Sycamore Avenue, scraping our knees at the old playground. He’s the kind of friend you call at 3 a.m., no questions asked. If I ever had a brother, it’d be him.

I call him Derek.

Derek, whose dad coached our Pop Warner team, who once stole his mom’s keys so we could sneak out for midnight burgers. We’ve seen each other at our worst—and our best.

Derek rubbed his temples and asked me, “Man, what on earth happened? How did this even start?”

He sounded tired, his voice worn thin. I shook my head, still dazed. The words wouldn't come. All I could do was stare at the tiled floor and wonder how the hell my life had gone sideways so fast.