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Springtime. I’ve always ... No, wait. That’s not right.
Where am I? Why did I fall asleep with the lights on?
“So, you’re awake?”
I blink up at the man scowling at me then glance at the clock behind his shoulder. It’s nine in the morning. How long have I been here? My back aches.
“Do you know who I am?” he asks, and his voice is uncharacteristically quiet. I’d say gentle, but that would be exaggerating. There’s nothing soft about this man and there never has been in all the time I’ve known him.
I nod. “You’re the detective.”
I think I see him smile. At least, that’s probably the closest he ever comes to smiling. “Good.” He raises his Styrofoam cup as if toasting my memory.
I sit up. Something’s missing. Something ... my head. It doesn’t hurt at all. What was in that coffee he gave me last night?
“Can you tell me what day it is?” Drisklay asks.
I think I know this one. “It’s August,” I answer.
His scowl is slightly less pronounced. “Do you know why you’re here?”
“We were working on ...” I glance at the table covered with Drisklay’s crime scene photographs and remember. My stomach sinks. “Mom ...”
“Right.” He nods, looking pleased while I feel like I’ve just been punched in the gut.
“I remember ...” I grope for words, staring at his desk for clues.
He leans in toward me intently. “Remember what?”
I don’t know. I’ve just lost it. “I remember waking up,” I tell him, feeling my way through my brain one word at a time. “I remember waking up and Dad telling me I was sick. And watching movies with my brother. And ...” I squint at him, trying to get a better focus. “I remember you coming to our house. You’ve been there before.”
Drisklay nods. “Sounds like your memories are coming back.” It should be great news. I know it should be. But something still feels off. Some piece of the puzzle I still haven’t connected yet.
“Can you tell me what happened when you went to your cabin last May?” There’s no hesitation. With Drisklay it’s all about the investigation. No slowing down.
I try to think. What happened at the cabin?
I remember the crime scene photographs. I remember the details Drisklay told me. Mom was attacked in the house. Stabbed and bled to death. I was outside. Hit my head on the deck railing.
And Chris ... drowned. Is that what Drisklay said? Some fishermen pulled him out of the lake.
They’re looking for the attacker. They’re trying to find out who might have ...
My brain snaps alert as if it’s been prodded with a Taser. I can feel my memory expanding with almost explosive speed.
“I remember,” I tell him. “I know what happened.”
A minute later, I’m in one of the questioning rooms. Drisklay has handed me a cup of lukewarm coffee and another Danish, but I’m not hungry or thirsty. I don’t even need the caffeine to make sense of the memories swirling around in my brain.
I tell the detective everything.