His words rang in her head. “Whom do you think they’re going to believe? You, an African refugee or me, an upstanding citizen of the community?”
He was right. No one would believe that the District Attorney was sexually abusing her. It would be her word against his.
She walked past the quail and went into the house. It was time to give Mrs. Foster her medication.
Ten minutes later, she went to the kitchen. He was there, leaning against the counter, holding the empty glass of lemonade. I should have emptied it in the sink. Now it’s too late.
Written as part of the Friday Fictioneers challenge hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. For more details, click Here.
To read more based on this week’s prompt, visit Here.