Another day at the old grind, you think to yourself as you exit your car in the police station's parking lot and put on your trench coat. Your work often takes a heavy toll on you, but you still come in, day in, day out. You refuse to stop—because after all, YAMOs won't stop. Not ever. As you enter the station lobby, the face of the last twisted young adult molester you put away reenters your mind. You imagine how cruel and sickening it must have looked as he touched that young twenty three year-old girl in the way he did...
"Detective Anon!" Deborah chirps up from her desk in the lobby. A young and lithe specimen, just barely turned thirty-one. People around the office all wonder why you haven't asked her out yet—it's obvious she likes you, and any other guy would certainly jump at the chance if she had taken a liking to them. "I'm so glad I caught you! There's a young girl waiting to talk to you in one of the waiting rooms, she wouldn't talk to anyone else."
"Oh really?" You furrow your brow—this couldn't be anything good.
"Her name's Layla. Twenty one years old, here all alone. Says her parents were too busy to be here with her. Poor thing looked like she was about to cry..."
You sigh deeply, taking off your coat and setting it on the coat rack before walking through the glass doors into the main area. "Thanks Deb, I'll go talk with her."
***
Layla sits behind a table, her big sad brown eyes looking up at you pleadingly. Her curly bobbed hair is slightly disheveled from crying, and her cheeks are already red from the stress of being here. She looks even younger than twenty one—more like eighteen you think, briefly studying her as she clutches a well-worn teddy bear.
"Hi there," you say gently, sitting down opposite her and taking out a small pad of paper. "My name is Detective Anon. What's the problem, dear?"
Layla takes a deep breath and begins to speak, her voice shaking as tears start to form in her eyes once again. "I-I don't know what to do..."
"What's wrong? Tell me, I can help."
"It's my boyfriend... He keeps... Touching me when we're alone together." She whispers the words softly, her face growing even more red as she does so.
"What do you mean, touching you?" Great, another statutory rape case, you think to yourself. They're getting more and more common—boys pressuring girls in their junior high classes to have sex in their early twenties. Nasty stuff.
"He touches me... Down there... I want to stop him, but I don't know how..."
"Let's start with this first," you tell her kindly. "How did he touch you?"
"Like this," Layla says as she takes your hand in hers and starts guiding it towards her crotch. You try to pull your hand back, but Layla tightens her grip fiercely. "This is his favorite spot to touch. It kind of feels nice to me too... But I know he shouldn't be doing it, because he's not supposed to be touching me like this, right?"
You nod—you are already beginning to sweat as