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I’m trying to find the strength to tell Detective Drisklay what happened once Chris and I started making our way down the trail when Sandy rushes in.
“There you are, sweetie. I got here as soon as I could. We had a late start today. Carl misplaced the keys, and Woong couldn’t find his homework assignment, and ... Oh, listen to me babbling. I’m sorry. Mia, it’s me, Sandy. From church?”
“I remember,” I answer, returning her hug. “I remember everything.”
She pulls back and looks at me closely. “Everything?”
I nod slowly.
“Oh, thank you, Jesus,” Sandy sighs. “I had such a hard time sleeping last night, and I was just praying and praying and praying for you and asking God to heal your memory. I’m so glad to hear it.” Sandy clasps her hands together and then gives me another hug. “Oh, it’s a miracle. Officer Drisklay, I’m sorry to interrupt your work, but I’ve just got to tell the Lord how thankful I am.” And right here, with the stoic detective looking on uncomfortably, Sandy prays for me.
“Sweet Savior Jesus,” she breathes, “I bless you Lord for healing sweet Mia’s mind. I bless you Lord for healing her memory and recovering what she lost. And now, Father, we lift up this investigation to you. We pray that whoever’s responsible for the tragedy that impacted Mia and her family would be resolved in Jesus’ name. We pray for justice, Lord. Justice as well as redemption because we know there isn’t a single soul on earth worthy of your love or your grace or your forgiveness. And so I ask, sweet and merciful Savior, that whoever hurt Mia and her family would be punished appropriately according to the law but also find forgiveness and grace through the blood that Jesus Christ shed on his cross to take the punishment for our sins.”
I sense Drisklay shifting uncomfortably and wonder if Sandy’s prayer is about to turn into an altar call. Finally, she wraps it up and gives me one last hug. “I didn’t know if you’d had anything to eat besides Officer Drisklay’s old Danishes, so I baked you some muffins. I’ve got blueberry and chocolate here. Now I have to warn you, they’re not too sweet because of Carl and his health. I have to cook different now, you know. Baking’s a whole new ball game when you have a diabetic in the house. There’s no sugar in here, just a little bit of honey. I’m still not all that fond of whole grain flour either, but it’s so much better for you. At least that’s what they say. So here you are.” She sets an overflowing paper bag on the table in front of me and invites Drisklay to help himself as well.
“I’m fine,” he says, holding up his Styrofoam cup of coffee like a soldier’s salute.
“I can’t stay long,” Sandy says. “I just hated the thought of you waking up here all alone and scared without any of your memories.” Sandy pauses and tilts her head to the side, staring at me as if she’s trying to decide something. Finally, she leans forward and kisses me on the cheek. “Well, darling, I’m just so glad you’re doing better. It’s a gift, I tell you. A true gift. And a miracle too. A real answer to prayer.”
Drisklay clears his throat, and Sandy clasps her hands together. “Well, I’ll leave you two to your investigating, but call me if you need anything. Anything at all. Shall I stop back by around lunchtime?”
Drisklay eyes the paper bag. “I think we’ll keep from getting too hungry.”
“Just remember, a growing girl needs more than cold coffee and danishes,” Sandy wags her finger at Drisklay before bustling out the door.
I haven’t touched the food in the bag yet even though the thought of muffins is deliciously tantalizing.
“She’s got a good point,” I tell Drisklay.
“Who? The pastor’s wife?”
“Yeah. I’m not sure I’ve been this clear-headed since the accident. And I don’t think it’s because that chair is the most comfortable bed I’ve slept in. Think it’s just a coincidence?”
I’m glad Sandy isn’t here. She’d probably think my question was blasphemy. I have no doubt that God could have restored my memory in some miraculous way last night. But if he wanted to do that, couldn’t he have done it months earlier, when the information I have could have helped the investigation along that much faster?
“I have a few theories of my own on that,” Drisklay says dryly. “That’s why I’ve ordered a blood test.”
“Blood test?”
He lets out a sigh. “May as well tell you now. When we were searching your home, we found the pills your father was giving you. Your pain medicine. Apparently, you were on very heavy doses of a new drug currently being tested for the treatment of anxiety. One of the most common side-effects, however, especially at the dose I believe you were given, is short-term memory impairment.”
“Wait a minute.” I try to remember. Pain pills? Short-term memory impairment? “My dad was drugging me?”
Drisklay sighs. “I wish it were as simple as that.”
“What do you mean?”
He leans forward. “Miss Blanca, I’m going to need to ask you some uncomfortable questions about your family. Starting with your brother Marco.”
I blink. My brother? But why? How is he involved in any of this?
“Marco?” is all I can think to say.
Drisklay nods. “I understand he’s in pharmaceutical sales.” Oh. That’s what this is about. They think that since Marco might have had access to new and experimental drugs, he’s somehow implicated.
“I don’t think he’d get involved in anything like this,” I say. “He wouldn’t be working for my dad. They don’t even like each other. And he’s the one who warned me and Chris, remember?”
Drisklay passes me an envelope. “Do you know what this is?”
I stare at the file with my brother’s name printed on the tab then shake my head.
“Over the past several years, five different women have come forward with accusations against your brother, all of them quite serious. I can assure you that the evidence against him is more than circumstantial, so do you care to guess why this file is so thin?”
“I don’t know,” I answer, even though a gnawing suspicion has settled into the base of my skull.
“Apparently, your father has quite the list of connections. None of these alleged victims carried through with their reports, and some of the incriminating evidence mysteriously disappeared from our labs as well. Do you get what I’m saying?”
“I think so,” I admit.
“I’m saying that even if your father and your brother weren’t lovey-dovey, all your dad had to do was wave this file over your brother’s head. That feels like pretty good incentive to cooperate with Daddy, don’t you think?”
I don’t answer. I want to go back to sleep, wake up, and imagine it’s senior skip day all over again.
“Marco was there to help me.” My protest is as weak as my body feels. “He was ... we watched movies together,” I conclude lamely.
Drisklay doesn’t acknowledge my non sequitur, sparing me further indignity.
“So here’s what I think happened,” he says. “Daddy found out who it was that killed his daughter all those years ago. Or at least he had his suspicions, and he was willing to circumvent the law to act on them.”
I don’t reply. Suddenly, Sandy’s muffins no longer sound so appealing.
“Daddy wanted to get revenge through the son,” Drisklay continues, “but he knew you were dating him, so he decided to wait it out. For all I know, he didn’t want to upset you and was waiting for the two of you to break up before he made his move. Just because someone’s a monster of a human being doesn’t make them a terrible parent.”
I pause, realizing that in a single sentence, Drisklay has explained a paradox that’s plagued me for years.
“But you and Lover Boy didn’t break up,” he goes on, “and one Friday last May, Daddy got a call from your boyfriend talking about marriage. That’s when he discovered how serious a relationship you two were in. He’d never give you away to the son of the man who raped and killed his daughter. So that’s our motive right there. Daddy comes out to the cabin. Makes his move. Next thing you know, two people are dead, your boyfriend and your mother. I’m going to give your father the benefit of the doubt and guess he didn’t mean to kill his wife. Maybe she was trying to stop him. Trying to protect you and he got mad when she stood in his way. That’s for the crime scene techs to figure out, not me.
“Now, Daddy’s got two victims, one intentional, one not. He dumps Gomez’s body in the lake, trusting the mud and silt to do their work to hide the corpse. As for you, now he’s only got two choices. He can kill so you can’t ever testify against him, or he can mess with your memories. He doesn’t want to hurt you, plus he’s got access to the right kind of drugs, thanks to your brother and his job.”
My head is swirling, and I’m trying desperately to keep up. “How is that sounding so far?” Drisklay asks.
I want to argue. I want to defend my family.
But I have nothing to say.
“So we’ve got our motive and our means down,” Drisklay concludes. “Now all I need you to do is tell me the rest of the story. Tell me exactly what happened when you and Gomez got to the other side of the lake.”