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It’s past midnight when Drisklay informs me that Chris’s dad has been questioned and released. And even though he didn’t act like the typical parent whose son has been found drowned in a lake, there’s no reason to suspect that Mr. Gomez had anything to do with the attacks.
“We’ve asked him multiple times about the letter his son wrote,” Drisklay tells me. “Gomez maintains that his son is a fool for wanting to enter into the ministry, but he wouldn’t have bothered going after him. That and the fact that surveillance footage, witness testimony, as well as the GPS in Gomez’s phone and truck all place him at work the afternoon of the attack. He’s not our guy.”
I hear Drisklay’s words, understand their inherent logic, but still have a hard time letting go of Mr. Gomez as the prime suspect. Because if he didn’t kill Mom and Chris, who did?
And even more baffling, why?
Drisklay and the other investigators have already ruled out some kind of burglary gone wrong for about as many reasons as anyone would care to rattle off. Nothing important was stolen from the cabin. The crime took place in broad daylight. And the severity and nature of the injuries suggest a fit of rage as opposed to a botched attempt to steal some valuables.
Drisklay wants me to stop thinking about the crime scene and go farther back. People who might have been angry at my father and want to take it out on his family. I know Dad has plenty of enemies, but I have no idea who they are. Drisklay even asks about any PTA parents my mom might have ticked off. I laugh when he suggests this before I realize he’s serious.
No. Nobody on the PTA would have wanted to kill my mom. Besides, why would they go after me and Chris, too?
Drisklay gives me far too many details about Chris’s discovery. “Unfortunately, because of the degree of decomposition, we can’t determine Gomez’s direct time of death.”
I wish Drisklay would stop talking about my boyfriend like this, but I suppose he’s got to stay somewhat clinical to keep on doing the work he does day in and day out.
“Because we don’t know exactly when he died,” Drisklay continues, “we can’t recreate the line of events. Did the attacker come after you and then Gomez tried to stop him?”
Yes, that sounds exactly like what Chris would do.
“The fact is,” Drisklay says before I can respond, “we simply don’t know. For now, let’s just assume that Chris was an unfortunate bystander and that whoever came to your cabin was after you or your mom.”
I’m trying to follow his line of reasoning, but I’ve grown so tired the room has started to spin. I’ve got the sense that I’m rocking slightly back and forth, but that could also be my vision blurring in and out of focus.
“Think,” Drisklay tells me. “Who might have reason to attack you? Why would anybody want to do that?”
The truth? My mom was the kindest, most generous woman in the entire world. And I’m not really the sort of girl to walk around school making enemies either, much less enemies who get so upset they go on a killing spree.
“I really don’t know,” I answer. I’m frustrated. Frustrated with the investigation, frustrated with myself. If it weren’t for this stupid brain injury, I could remember everything. Tell Drisklay exactly what he needs to know and get whoever did this behind bars.
It’s infuriating. I need to remember, but it’s not coming to me fast enough. In fact, it’s not coming to me at all. It’s been hours since I recalled what I did about Chris’s letter to his dad, and as it turns out, Drisklay had known about Chris’s note already.
I’ve got to press on. Got to try harder.
But I’m so tired.
“Hey.” It’s not until Drisklay snaps his fingers in front of my face that I realize I’m drifting off. Even after my second mug of coffee.
“Sorry.” I jerk myself alert, but a few seconds later I’m swaying in my seat again.
“Go.” Drisklay points to the oversized chair.
I can scarcely hear him, let alone understand what his gesture is supposed to mean. “Huh?”
“Go.” He points again. “Sleep. You obviously can’t function anymore.” He says the words like it’s something to be ashamed of, but I’m not going to let him dismiss me so easily.
“I can’t,” I argue. “I’ll forget everything.”
“Then I’ll remind you when you wake up.” His words sound like a threat, but he speaks them gently. “Go sleep,” he repeats. “I need you sharp. I need you focused.”
I can’t disagree with him anymore. The truth is I’m too tired to have a clue what I’m doing.
I hate to feel like I’m giving up. I tell myself I won’t really sleep. I’ll just lie down here. Nice and cozy. Oh, a blanket. That’s a surprising touch. I wouldn’t think something like that would even enter Drisklay’s head.
Do I need a pillow? he asks. No. I’m okay. I don’t really plan to doze off. Just rest my eyes. I can use the quiet time to think. Think and try to remember.
The only thing I can’t do is fall asleep. That’s the promise I make to myself. That’s the only reason I allow myself to roll to my side. Shut out the world. Curl up with my knees close to my chest. I’m tired, but I can stay awake a little while longer. This will just give me a chance to think.
There’s got to be more memories stored in this dysfunctional brain of mine. Maybe if I’m real quiet and real still, they’ll come to me.
I just have to stay awake. Whatever I do, I can’t fall asleep ...