Slow Fade

By Kate G. Phillips

Seventeen years old is too young to experience the grief of burying her family, but Sara Scott clings to the hope that she won't be alone forever. Salvation has a name—Dougie. His continuous compliments and affection quickly wheedle Sara away from her former life and into Dougie's home. "Love" is patient and kind.
As red tearstains fall down her swollen cheek, Sara's desperation for companionship blurs her reality. No one knows the Dougie that Sara does. He only acts out when she provokes him. Voluntarily and not, Sara accepts whatever Dougie does to her to prove her love is true. "Love" is forgiving, even if it leaves bruises.
A police officer's duty to protect extends beyond the badge when he meets Sara. Unable to ignore what she can't see, his heart screams for her safety. Mentally, she's too far away to hear the voices that echo in her fading logic. Sara rejects his pleas and the warnings that Dougie's former victim left behind. "Love" always trusts and never fails.
Although Sara has nothing to hide, when Dougie learns of the officer's interest in his possession, his jealousy drives him to stake her as his territory. Redemption is not for the dead. Sara may already be too late.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667896601

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SLOW FADE

Copyright © 2023 Kate G. Philips. All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-1-66789-659-5 (Print)

ISBN 978-1-66789-660-1 (eBook)

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted

in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other

electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of

the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews

and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places,

events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination

or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons,

living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Cover Illustration by Jason Phillips

Thank you to my family and friends for always

being supportive, loving, and encouraging.

Thank you Ms. Tripp for your law enforcement expertise.

A special thanks to my husband, Jason.

I could not have journeyed here without you.

Thank you to the countless friends and family members

who supported me by providing feedback

to help make this what it is.

Prologue The WHY Behind the Novel

Chapter One Officer Kipton Pierre

Chapter Two Sara Olivia Scott ~ Age Seventeen

Chapter Three Sara Olivia Scott

Chapter Four Sara Olivia Scott ~ Tomorrow Comes

Chapter Five Sara Olivia Scott ~ Dreaming

Chapter Six Sara Olivia Scott

Chapter Seven Sara Olivia Scott

Chapter Eight Sara Olivia Scott

Chapter Nine Sara Olivia Scott

Chapter Ten Sara Olivia Scott

Chapter Eleven Douglas J. Adams

Chapter Twelve Sara Olivia Scott

Chapter Thirteen Sara Olivia Scott

Chapter Fourteen Sara Olivia Scott

Chapter Fifteen Sara Olivia Scott

Chapter Sixteen Sara Olivia Scott

Chapter Seventeen Sara Olivia Scott

Chapter Eighteen Sara Olivia Scott

Chapter Nineteen Officer Kipton Pierre

Chapter Twenty Sara Olivia Scott

Chapter Twenty-One Sara Olivia Scott

Chapter Twenty-Two Sara Olivia Scott

Chapter Twenty-Three Sara Olivia Scott

Chapter Twenty-Four Sara Olivia Scott

Chapter Twenty-Five Officer Kipton Pierre

Chapter Twenty-Six Sara Olivia Scott

Chapter Twenty-Seven Sara Olivia Scott

Chapter Twenty-Eight Sara Olivia Scott

Chapter Twenty-Nine Douglas J. Adams

Chapter Thirty Sara Olivia Scott

Chapter Thirty-One Sara Olivia Scott

Chapter Thirty-Two Sara Olivia Scott

Chapter Thirty-Three Douglas J. Adams

Chapter Thirty-Four Sara Olivia Scott

Chapter Thirty-Five Officer Kipton Pierre

Chapter Thirty-Six Officer Kipton Pierre

Chapter Thirty-Seven Officer Kipton Pierre

Chapter Thirty-Eight Sara Olivia Scott

Chapter Thirty-Nine Monica Chant

Prologue

The WHY Behind the Novel

People who know me probably use words like assertive, loud, strong, outspoken, and maybe even intense when describing my personality. But I wasn’t always this way. So why am I now? Domestic violence has silenced so many people who aren’t able to speak from the grave … from the hospital room … from the prison they are currently trapped in at home. I found my voice before it was too late.

I so often hear, It’s her own fault she went back to him. She knew he would hit her again. People also say, I would never stay with someone who abused me. It’s her own fault she’s staying. They even say, I never knew. There were no warning signs. Victim blaming is too common when it comes to domestic abuse, and so is the theme that others never would have guessed it was happening with someone they knew. I was never warned about how domestic abuse starts. What I can say is that it doesn’t start with a fist to the face.

I came from a tight-knit family; we all lived in one house. I had a solid faith as a Christian and a strong sense of right and wrong. We were an average family living in the suburbs of Minnesota. I trusted others freely as I had never really been given a reason not to. While I was made fun of through most of my school years by being called unkind names or having rumors made up about me, my life was still pretty easy. It was quite privileged.

I had recently broken up with my second boyfriend when my friends from work told me about a guy who would be perfect for me. I agreed to meet him. I’ll never forget the night I met him: butterflies bounced around in my stomach when an older guy told me I was pretty. The compliments were not something I was used to, aside from those given by my friends. On our first few dates, he was a complete gentleman. Kind. Funny. He complimented me. He held my hand. He was smooth, so smooth that I never saw a change.

Then one night, as we sat in his car alone in a rural park, he cried, yet no tears came down his face. He shared a story with me that played on my empathy and giving nature. He made it seem like no one would love him. I promised him I wasn’t going to judge him. I promised I wasn’t going to leave him. I promised I would never do something to violate him. My heart hurt for him. I wanted nothing more than to help him, nurture him, and take care of him. Thinking back, my emotions and empathy blinded my logic.

One day shortly thereafter, I had not had a chance to eat before I got to his house. My stomach loudly growled. I said I was hungry. He made a comment about how he was glad I noticed it too. I didn’t understand. He acted surprised, like maybe he shouldn’t tell me, but then was more than happy to tell me that he thought I was trying to skip meals because, you know, I was getting kinda pudgy. I was five feet four and weighed 106 pounds. One hundred six pounds is anything but pudgy. But I didn’t eat that night or many times thereafter. I wanted to remain beautiful. As my bones protruded more, his reassurance of my beauty motivated me to double down on my hunger.

When we hung out with my group of friends, we had a fun time together. But after we left, he told me he felt uncomfortable, like they were judging him. I assured him they were not. But when he told me he wanted to hang out just the two of us next time, I read it as insecurity; with everything he had been through in the past, I didn’t want to put any kind of pressure on him. Before I realized it, we stopped seeing my friends.

I remember clearly stating I never wanted to do more than kiss before marriage. Some people called me a prude or uptight, but that was supposed to be my choice. Instead of listening to the hairs that stood up on the back of my neck each time he forgot my limits, I rationalized his actions. I clearly recall his hands groping me where I specifically told him not to. The empty air stifled my words. I vividly recall thinking I could scream, but it was just him and me in his house, so no one would hear me. No one was coming. No one would save me. Plus, I would look stupid screaming when I’m with my boyfriend, someone who loves me.

I remember one specific night like it was yesterday. I was sitting in my car, shaking, crying, and alone. My body was acting as if it was in danger, but my body, brain, heart, and mind were in all different areas. I couldn’t comprehend why my body was trembling when my brain told me I was selfish and a tease. My heart knew something wasn’t right, but my mind told me I was also overreacting. It was all so confusing. This was the first time I recognized my story may not be the fairy tale I believed it was.

Between compliments, he convinced me I was selfish, extremely flawed, and not a great person. I was lucky he loved me. He was more experienced and knew what love was. He convinced me that if I really loved him, I would let him do whatever he wanted to me. Let me say that one more time. He convinced me that if I really loved him, I would let him do WHATEVER he wanted to me, regardless of what I wanted.

My soul knew something was off, but my brain believed him. I wanted to be loved. I had never been in love, so I didn’t know what it felt like. Any time I brought up the fact that I didn’t want to do something or that maybe we should go separate ways, he would threaten to hurt himself; his death would be on my hands. So I went back. I doubted my own instincts because he was just that good at manipulating my reality.

I’m not going to get into how I got away from him—that’s a story I’m keeping to myself. I will say all of our mutual friends told me I was a terrible person for breaking his heart. They made me the villain in my own nightmare.

Like many people who escape an abusive relationship, I didn’t realize the reasons I sought to get drunk, starve myself, or gamble away thousands of dollars were because I had somehow completely lost myself in my own mirror without ever noticing my identity fading.

The first time I saw the power and abuse wheel, it was like I could finally see something I never knew was there. It unveiled just how bad and toxic that relationship had been. I had lost all my self-worth. He had convinced me I was too pudgy, too much of a hypocrite, ugly, a liar, a devil, and just overall unworthy, when, in reality, he was the serpent in the garden all along.

So why doesn’t a person leave when they are hit? For many, the emotional and psychological abuse is so sneakily hidden between the good that they never realize the pot of cold water is now boiling.

While this story is fictional and not based on any one person or thing, it illustrates how a strong person can rationalize away even the most absurd experiences. Any parallels in the story to my own life are purely coincidental. Domestic abuse can impact anyone, which is why it is so crucial to pay attention. Research and share the power and abuse wheel with your friends, with your family, and with your colleagues. I share this story in hopes that it will save others from the serpent in the Garden.

Chapter One

Officer Kipton Pierre

I pull over this supped-up, wannabe thug car, knowing I’ll find intense pleasure in ticketing this young punk for running the red light. I snap on the video cam to make sure no funny business ensues. Gun in holster, check. Taser in holster, check. Pad of tickets and pen ready to go, check. I adjust my hat to make sure it’s on just right and begin the twenty-foot walk toward this shady car.

I lean over and peer in through the window, which this rude kid never bothered to roll down. My hand remains on my holstered gun. As I crouch down to look in, I’m shocked to find a woman in the front seat. She’s about my age—early to mid-twenties—with blonde hair brushing her shoulders. She’s looking into her rear-view mirror, oblivious to me standing here. I wait a second to see if she will look over. She doesn’t.

I tap on the window. Ma’am, please roll down the window and then put your hands on the steering wheel. She obliges and then returns her left hand to the steering wheel. She has yet to make any sort of eye contact with me.

Ma’am, I’m going to need your license and registration for this vehicle. Do you know why I pulled you over? I wait for her to answer.

She hesitates, then whispers, No. She stutters, I … I’m sorry. I don’t know where the registration is, but here is my driver’s license. As this tiny woman digs into her apron to pull out her license, I notice her hands trembling. I’ve never seen someone this nervous about being pulled over. Is she on drugs? What is she hiding?

As her shaky hand reaches out to give me the license, her voice squeaks, This is my boyfriend’s car. I’m getting cheese. I got the wrong cheese. I need to get ch … cheddar. American isn’t burger cheese.

Cheese? What is she talking about? But her voice, her voice alarms me, like she’s in some kind of danger. Concerned something bigger may be going on, I try to remain calm.

Ma’am, I’m going to need you to look at me. I hold my breath because I’m afraid of seeing her eyes. I can tell by how shaky she is that her eyes will reveal what her words do not.

She slowly turns towards me, hesitant to show me her eyes.

Am I being ar … arrested? She is hiding half of her face.

What is underneath her hair? Is she hurt? Is she scared? Is she on drugs? What is she hiding? I need to maintain professionalism but get a better read on her. I take my hand off my holstered gun. Ma’am, I need to see your entire face. I need you to look at me. I add, And no, you aren’t going to be arrested. You ran a red light, so that is why I pulled you over. I don’t want to add to her fear.

Her right hand trembles. I resist the odd urge to reach out and embrace her shaking hand. My job is to protect, and by getting all the information, I can do just that. Part of me suspects what is behind her shielding hair, and the other part of me hopes I don’t know—hopes it’s nothing. She slowly pulls her hair behind her ear, tucking it there. She turns to me.

My heartbeat stops. I swallow what air is already inside my lungs. Her face is swollen from her forehead down to her lips. I’m not even sure she can see out of her right eye. A trickle of blood stretches from her eyebrow to her chin. Again, I restrain my arm from reaching out to hold her delicate face. Anger boils inside me. I feel immense guilt for forcing her to look at me, exposing her in such a raw state. Her eyes quickly retract behind her tears.

Realizing I’ve been staring at her for twenty seconds without saying a word, I refocus.

Are … are you okay, ma’am? I ask without trying to sound too disturbed.

Her slight nod yes is not convincing as a new tear glistens, sliding down her cheek.

Did someone do this to you? Did someone hurt you? I try to contain my worried tone. She stares at nothing and nods no as she sits quietly in her seat. Her hands are still tightly gripping the steering wheel. I see her knuckles turning white.

She looks innocent and fragile. I need to keep my emotions out of this to see if I can help. The academy never trained us on how to deal with this. We’re trained on procedures when we arrive at domestic disputes or bar fights, but not for this, when we stumble upon them by accident. Millions of thoughts run through my head. Was she raped? There have been five recent cases of date rape in town this past month. Was she beaten at work since she appears to have a waitress outfit on? Wait, she mentioned a boyfriend. I take a slow, deep breath before asking, You said this is your boyfriend’s vehicle? And you have permission to drive this? I need to make sure I’m not just trying to pry; I need to make it sound like I’m still concerned she is the one who broke the law. On the other hand, I don’t want her to realize my stunned state is because I hadn’t expected a woman to be driving, much less a battered woman.

Yes, yes. I’m getting him cheddar cheese, she says so matter-of-factly. I can see her whispering something else but can’t quite make it out.

Her boyfriend must be the problem since she sounds like she just came from his home and is driving his car. Let me just run a few things. I’ll be back. I walk to my squad with her license. I shut off the dash video without thinking twice. She isn’t dangerous. I quickly scribble her name and DOB onto a piece of scratch paper. Next to it, I jot down the license plate number for the souped-up piece of crap she is driving.

I can’t make it look like I’m writing down her information or processing a ticket, so I stuff the paper into my right pocket and walk back to her car. Here is your license, ma’am. I’m going to let you off today with just a warning. Just don’t try to make any late yellow lights. I put my business card in with her license. I know I should have given her the domestic abuse hotline number, but something tells me it wouldn’t do any good. I want her to know that I can help her too, that I want to help her. I keep staring at this frail woman. Inner beauty radiates from her broken body. Nobody should be a victim of domestic assault.

Thank you, she says with a loud sigh of relief.

My soul feels lighter. I walk back to my car, not wanting to leave her side. I still have her image vivid in my mind as I open my squad door and slide into the seat. My eyes focus forward on the vehicle and the small body in the front driver’s seat. Is it because she is likely in danger? Is it because she was hurt? Is it because she was so scared? Why do I have such a strong yearning to wrap my arms around her and embrace her, keep her safe? I need to get to know this woman more. My job is to protect; I must protect her.

I pull out the small paper I had tucked in my right pocket and study my note.

Sara Olivia Scott. 4-13-85. BAG666.

Chapter Two

Sara Olivia Scott ~ Age Seventeen

Nine months earlier.

This is it. The last of my most precious belongings neatly stacked inside a cardboard box. I’m surprised my life fits in so few boxes. After seventeen years, I thought there would be more than six cardboard cubes to document my existence.

You get everything you need all packed up, Sara? Momma joins me in my now-empty room, empty aside from the small twin bed huddled in the corner and the three remaining boxes hiding in the closet.

Yep, Momma. I hold in my insecurity. I don’t want her to know I’m petrified of leaving.

You know, your father and I don’t care about having a guest room. Really. We don’t want you to feel like you have to move all of your stuff out of here just because you’re going to college.

I know they wouldn’t mind if I kept my artwork up and other décor out to accompany the now bare sage-colored walls, but they’ve spent their whole lives giving me everything I needed; I feel compelled to give them the luxury of a guest room. And if they don’t have any guests, at least this is a room where Momma can sleep in peace when Daddy’s snoring rumbles their small master suite.

I know, Momma. But it’s time for me to take the next step.

We’re so proud of you. Her arms embrace me. You’ll be just fine in the cities. You’re a strong woman. And you know that this will always be your home, no matter what. You’ll always have your bed to sleep in when you come home.

I know, is all my voice allows me to muster before my composure begins cracking. Momma senses my quivering nerves and hugs me tighter.

Everything is going to be okay. I promise, she reassuringly whispers into my ear.

I nod in agreement. I hope she’s right. I’m not sure I’m ready to be on my own. My parents are more than just my parents; they are some of my best friends and the people I confide in.

Momma’s words force me back into reality. Okay. Let’s get this last box packed up in the car so we’re not late.

I carry the surprisingly light box out to the car and make room for it next to my suitcase in the trunk. Daddy is already outside checking the tire pressure and the oil.

Everything okay with the car, Daddy?

Absolutely. I just wanted to make sure we won’t have any problems on the drive down to the city.

Bummer. I was hoping we’d have to cancel or at least delay the journey.

You guys got everything? Momma yells from the porch.

Yep, Daddy hollers back as he puts his tire gauge and oilcloth back in the garage.

What I can, I quietly reply to Momma, knowing no one can hear me but me. I can’t fit my home in the dorm, and they aren’t moving in with me. So no, I don’t have everything.

Don’t get me wrong. I look forward to the new adventures that are expected with moving away from home and attending college; it’s what I’m leaving behind that has me anxious. I fumble around for my seatbelt buckle as my eyes follow Momma. She locks up the house and hustles out to the passenger seat to join me. Daddy isn’t far behind as he presses the button inside the garage to close the garage door and hurriedly runs through the opening, jumping over the sensor so it doesn’t reopen. I sure am going to miss them and all these trivial moments.

As we pass the farmland on either side of the road, my heart races. St. Paul is over an hour and a half away from home, and I won’t have a car. What if I don’t like it? What if my roommate is crazy? What if I need Daddy or Momma?

Sara, we are so proud of you. Daddy’s eyes glance through his rearview mirror at me, interrupting my panic.

Thanks, Daddy.

This is a big step for you—for anyone.

Momma breaks Daddy’s slow train of thought. And you know that if you need us, we are only a phone call away. And a hour-and-a-half drive.

She won’t need us. Daddy smiles. I wish Daddy would share some of his faith in me with me.

You know, Sara, Momma says, her eyes glistening as she turns around in her seat to look at me, your Daddy and I met in college.

Don’t give my little girl any ideas. Daddy still isn’t willing to accept I’m at the age Momma was when they met.

Oh hush. She’s a beautiful woman, and she can’t help it if her prince charming finds her sooner than later. Momma is such a romantic. I blame the countless corny romantic movies she’s made us sit through. Although I’ll admit I wouldn’t mind if I met my future husband.

Even though I’ve heard the story of how they met a million times, I hope Momma starts retelling it for the one millionth and first time. She doesn’t. Instead, she inquires as to what kind of man I’m looking for. I know you are capable of finding someone good, but do you know what qualities you are seeking in a man?

Honestly, Momma, I haven’t thought about it a ton.

Well, sweetheart, you are going to the big city, where there are lots of good men but also some crazy ones. Of course, she is worried. I just want to make sure you filter out the bad ones.

Don’t worry. I’ve had you guys as my role models for seventeen years. Momma’s hand reaches over the center console and rests on my father’s arm as he continues his ten and two o’clock wheel grip. I catch a glimpse of his smile. I know that I’m not going to date someone who is arrogant or selfish. I guess I assume I’ll probably just know, like you guys did when you met.

Just know that people in the city aren’t always as sweet as the people of Duelm. But I know you’ll pick only the good ones. Momma reassures herself.

I’ll be fine, Momma.

Of course, you’ll be fine, Daddy pipes in. You’re my little girl. You’re smart.

Thanks, Daddy.

I know Momma’s tears are just waiting to spill from her eyes, so I quickly change the subject. Are you guys going to do anything fun when you get home? Like decorate the new guest room.

Momma answers before the last word falls from my mouth. We don’t have anything planned, but we might see if Judy and Bob want to come over for dinner next week.

Momma is going to have to fill her free time so she doesn’t worry. Judy and Bob have been friends with my parents for many years. Judy and Momma met in college when they were sophomore roommates and have been close ever since. Bob, Judy, and my parents used to double date frequently before they had three kids of their own and my parents had me. Their kids are a few years older than me, so they’ve been empty nesters for a while.

That would be good for you guys. Tell them I say hi.

Of course. I know Judy has wanted to get together for a while, but life’s just been so darn busy. It will be fun to see those two again.

Our conversation changes from Bob and Judy to autumn. With all the rain we’ve had this summer, fall’s colors are bound to pop. My heart sinks knowing that I’m going to miss my favorite tree, the fifty-year-old silver maple outside my bedroom window, change from green to red to orange to yellow. At least St. Paul has an abundance of old trees that I’m sure will be a new kind of beautiful.

We arrive at the dorm hall sooner than I had hoped. After check-in at the front desk, I’m forced to take a mug shot for my ID card. Hard to have a great photo taken when you are scared half to death. I put on my brave smile.

Room 409. I open the door to find the room empty. I wheel in my suitcase, and my parents follow me in and set my boxes down on the floor. I’m relieved that my roommate isn’t here yet; now I have first pick between the two beds. I choose the bottom bunk, assuming it will be easier to get in and out of bed. I quickly toss my worn maroon shoulder purse on the mattress to claim my spot.

We all feel the inevitable goodbye that lingers in the quiet room. No one wants to make the first move to acknowledge our future is now a reality. As their only child, I know my parents are just as nervous to drive back to their childless home as I am to be left here alone. Yet, they realize that staying will only make it harder to say goodbye. It’s like ripping off a Band-Aid; you don’t want to rip it off, but you know it’s best.

Let me walk you guys down. Momma’s eyes no longer hold back their tears, and I sense Daddy starting to get choked up. Neither say a word.

We silently ride the elevator down to the ground floor. Our walk through the corridor is strange. It feels as if we are walking in slow motion.

Outside the glass door entrance, I hug Daddy. I love you, Daddy. Thank you for everything.

I love you, Sweet Sara. His voice cracks. For being a fifty-year-old, 210-pound, silver-haired man, he’s a softy.

I hug Momma last. I love you, Momma. Her contagious tears spread to my eyes. Momma’s five-foot-seven frame is a powerhouse of love; she can make the most stoic spill their soul.

We love you, Sweet Sara. Remember, you can call us anytime. Her words are strong even as she struggles to speak through her tears.

After a few more hugs and kisses on the cheek, I wave goodbye to them as their blue Impala leads them away from me. I sense a few odd glances coming my way from strangers, but I don’t care what people think of me waving. The most important people in my life are starting a new journey of their own as I am here.

Once their blue Impala is out of sight, I use my mug shot ID badge to get back into the building. I take the stairs up to Room 409 to give me a bit more time to compose myself. I open the door, relieved