The house had gone quiet after the long, shattering day. Mum had called me back downstairs and coaxed me into drinking a mug of warm milk, though it sat like a stone in my stomach. Dad sat stiffly in his armchair, his jaw tight, his eyes locked on the window. Teddy was beside me on the sofa, so close that I could feel the heat of him even through the blanket draped around my shoulders. The twins and Zoey had gone to bed. Worn out after spending the day playing outside.
The knock came just as the silence was starting to settle into something almost bearable. Three sharp raps against the wood. My body jumped, and Teddy's arm moved instinctively across the back of my shoulders, as though shielding me.
Dad rose, slow and deliberate, and crossed the room. He opened the door, and the same two officers from the night before stood on the step, police helmets in hand, their uniforms making them appear larger.
"Mr. Rivers?" the male one asked. "We wanted to update you straightaway."
Dad stood aside, his voice clipped. "Come in."
They stepped into the sitting room. I curled tighter beneath the blanket, pressing myself into the setee. My stomach twisted as though I'd swallowed ice. The uniforms, the notepads, their solemn faces — it all made last night replay in sharp, jagged flashes behind my eyes.
The male officer cleared his throat. "After taking the statements, from your daughter and son, and collecting and documenting photographic evidence of Miss Rivers' injuries." His eyes flicked briefly to me before settling back on Dad. "Based on that evidence, we arrested Harry Cooper earlier this evening for attempted rape."
The words hung in the air like smoke. Mum inhaled sharply. Dad's jaw worked, the lines around his mouth set hard as stone. Teddy's hands tightened on my shoulders, his eyes found mine, checking that I'd heard, that I understood.
"We believe there's a strong case," WPC Turner added. "The Crown Prosecution Service will review it, but with the witness account, the medical records, and the photographs, we are confident charges will follow."
Mum reached for my hand. Her palm was warm and trembling. "You hear that, love?" she whispered. "He's not going to get away with it."
I swallowed hard, my throat thick. Relief and dread battled inside me — relief that this wasn't being brushed aside, dread at the thought of a courtroom, of seeing Harry again, of saying everything out loud to strangers.
Dad's voice was low, fierce. "Good. It's what he deserves."
The officers went on, outlining the next steps. There would be a hearing within a couple of weeks. Statements reviewed again. Possibly a trial. Each detail pressed heavier on my chest until I thought I might suffocate beneath it all. I nodded when they looked my way, but I couldn't make my mouth form words.
When the officers finally left, Dad closed the door carefully behind them. He stood there a moment, one hand still on the handle, before turning back. His eyes were red, though he hadn't cried in front of us. His voice shook, but his words were as heavy as iron.
"Whatever happens now, we stand together. Nobody will hurt her again. Nor anyone in this house. Not while I draw breath."
Mum stretched down and her arms circled around my shoulders, blanket and all. Her chin rested lightly against my hair, and I felt the dampness of her tears on my scalp. She wasn't usually like this — Mum was quick-tempered, sharp-tongued, not given to soft comforts — but since last night, she'd treated me as if I were five years old again and had fallen off the swing. "We'll get through this, Em," she murmured. "We will."
Teddy shifted closer, his arm still around my shoulders, his presence as steady as a wall. I leaned against him, letting his solid warmth keep me upright. For the first time since the attack, I felt the faintest trace of warmth seep back into my bones.
But when I closed my eyes, Harry's sneer rose behind my eyelids. The sound of his voice, the sting of his slap, how I fought him as he dragged me into the alley. I flinched, and Mum's arms tightened.
Dad sank heavily into his chair again, elbows on his knees, his hands pressed together as though he were saying a silent prayer, I could see he was holding himself back from breaking. His voice came out rough. "I should've walked you home. I should've —"
"It's not your fault," I croaked, my voice breaking on the words. "It's not."
But he only shook his head, the shame carved deep into his expression.
No one spoke for a long while after that. The clock ticked, rain whispered against the window, the sounds of the cars passing outside on the road. Each of us was somewhere else in our heads — Mum holding me tighter, Dad staring into the floorboards, Teddy breathing slowly beside me, as though if he held steady enough, he could hold me steady too.
I should have felt safer after hearing the words "arrested," but instead the room felt heavier.
Justice, they said. Strong case, they said. But none of it would undo the way I still shook when I thought about the alley, the way my chest seized when I imagined telling Tommy. I hadn't written him, hadn't told him what had happened. How could I? How could I put those words on paper and imagine his face when he read them?
When Mum finally coaxed me to bed, I lay awake staring at the ceiling. The shadows of the room pressed in close, and each time I closed my eyes, I was back there again — the rough wall against my back, Harry's hand across my face, the roar in my ears when I screamed. Then, just as sharp, the memory of Teddy's arms pulling me free, Dad's quiet fury, Mum's trembling warmth.
The terror and the love sat side by side inside me, impossible to untangle. Trauma didn't vanish when you locked the door. It followed you into bed, it pressed into your dreams, it whispered that you weren't safe even in your own home. But at least in this house, I wasn't alone. My family were around me and would be as long as I needed them.