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“Mia?” the policewoman says. “Did you hear me? Do you understand what I’ve just told you?”
I stare at the metal desk inside the police station, hardly able to focus on her words.
“What can you tell me about how your mother and boyfriend died?”
“They aren’t dead,” I tell her. Shouldn’t that be enough to clear up the mistake? “I want to talk to my mom.”
The woman’s expression doesn’t change. I feel my throat closing. I can’t let panic take over. Not now. Not here. I have to sort this out.
“Text Chris,” I tell her. “He’ll explain everything. I can’t ... I don’t remember. Just call him. I want to talk to my mom.”
“Mia, do you know what day it is?” She keeps harping on the stupid date. It could be February 31 for all I care. That doesn’t explain why I’m in a police station with a woman who’s insisting the two people I love the most in the world have died.
“It’s Friday,” I tell her. It’s senior skip weekend. I’m supposed to be at the cabin. I feel like I’m going to throw up. When the police picked me up, I thought it must be about Dad. What else could it have been?
Remember what I’ve taught you. That’s what he told me before the police put me in their car. I thought the woman brought me here to ask about Dad’s work. Instead, she’s sitting here telling me that Mom and Chris are dead. It’s absurd. Doesn’t make any sense.
Dead. The word replays and replays in my head like a choppy gif. Dead. Dead. Dead.
Your mother and boyfriend are dead.
They can’t be dead. We still have to go to the cabin.
But I didn’t make it to the cabin. Instead I got sick ...
My brother was here. He was taking care of me. Or maybe that’s just what I was dreaming. How did I wake up in the middle of the afternoon unable to remember anything?
I was watching a movie. A movie with my brother. We were watching that one ... Dancing. It had dancing in it. No, that must have been part of the dream too.
This woman keeps asking me what day it is, but all I can hear is one taunting word.
Dead.
Dead. Dead. Dead.
She can’t really mean that. It’s a mistake. She thinks I’m someone else, except she’s calling me Mia.
What is going on?
Your mother and boyfriend are dead.
It’s so ridiculous I’d be laughing my head off if I weren’t so scared. But these cops don’t joke. They don’t mess around. This isn’t some kind of juvenile senior-weekend prank.
Your mother and boyfriend are dead.
I try to wrap my mind around the concept, wondering curiously at how the words seem both so strange and yet somewhat familiar. Like I’ve had this exact same dream before, been in this exact same room, carried on this exact same conversation with this exact same officer. But I know I haven’t.
“Now listen, Mia.” The officer’s talking to me like I’m an infant. “I need you to fill this out and sign it. Then our detective will be in to speak with you shortly.”
I manage to keep myself as composed as can be expected. My hand shakes while I fill out her paperwork, a trembling that doesn’t subside even after she leaves me here in this room alone. Every time I hear footsteps in the hallway, I imagine it’s Mom come to rescue me and clear up this entire mistake.
But they’re telling me Mom’s dead. She can’t be, though. We had plans ...
And Chris ... We were going to go to the cabin. It was our class trip. I need to think straight. Need to remember ...
I don’t know how long they’ve kept me waiting here in this claustrophobic room. I’m afraid I’m going to suffocate when the door opens. In comes a tall man with a Styrofoam cup in his hand and a scowl etched onto his face. “You remember me?”
I shake my head. Am I supposed to know who he is?
He sets his cup on the table and sits down across from me. “Detective Drisklay. We’ve met before.”
I want to tell him that he’s mistaken, that I’ve never seen him in my life, but something stops me. Another flash of deja vu. Was this man in my dreams too?
“You sure you don’t know me?”
I stare again. The flash is gone. I shake my head.
He doesn’t seem surprised or disappointed at my admission. Instead, he pulls out an electronic device and tells me we’ll be recording.
“You understand your rights?” is one of the first questions he asks.
I nod. “I think so.”
“I need a yes or no answer, Miss Blanca,” he states dryly.
I swallow. “Yes.”
Drisklay leans forward. “What can you tell me about the events at your parents’ cabin the afternoon of May 24?”
I pause. “I haven’t been at the cabin. I was supposed to go, but ...”
He stares at me then lets out a frustrated sigh. “Miss Blanca, have you met with the mental health liaison yet?”
“The who?”
“Our mental health liaison. She was supposed to fill you in. Is it possible you met with her and have forgotten?”
I shake my head. “I’ve been here alone waiting this whole time,” I tell him.
“One minute.” Drisklay turns off the recorder then stands up, his chair making a terrible scraping sound against the concrete floor, and he leaves the room
I’m cold. I’m scared. I’m confused. And I need to talk to my mother.
Drisklay comes back in a moment later. Sits down. Turns his device back on. “Miss Blanca, unfortunately our liaison is unable to join us for the time being. The abbreviated version is you’ve suffered a brain injury. Your short-term memory has been impaired, making it hard for you to create any new memories or remember events for the past three months.”
Three months? I can’t have heard him right.
He takes a sip of coffee and levels his eyes at me. “Do you understand?”
What am I supposed to say? Of course I don’t understand. “Not really,” I admit.
His annoyance is palpable when he lets out his breath. “Today is August 14. Three months ago, you were at the cabin with your mother and Christopher Gomez. You survived an assault. Your mother was killed. Initially, we believed Gomez to be the attacker.”
“He would never do that,” I interject.
Drisklay doesn’t appear to hear me, or if he does hear me, he doesn’t care. “Just this morning,” he goes on without pause, “we found Gomez’s body in the lake by your parents’ property. So now we have two murder victims, and we have you.”
“I don’t know anything.” The room spins, and I’m trying hard to keep myself from falling. I grab onto the sides of my chair until my forearms hurt from the strain. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“What’s the last thing you remember?” he asks.
“I woke up from a nap. The police were in my room. My dad said they had questions for me.”
Drisklay keeps his voice steady and even. “Right now, I need you to focus on the facts of May 24.”
“I’m telling you, I don’t know. I thought that was today. I honestly ...” I stop. Did he say it’s already August? “I don’t remember anything.” It’s become like my own personal slogan. My go-to response for everything.
“Then let’s talk about today,” Drisklay says. “Before you went to take your nap, what were you doing?”
That’s easy. I was ... I was ... I’m so frustrated I want to cry, but my need for answers takes precedence over my need for some kind of emotional release.
“Who was at home with you when you went to bed?” Drisklay asks.
“My mom and my ...” I stop. That can’t be right. The detective’s telling me my mom is dead, that she died three whole months ago. Do I believe him? It has to be some sort of mistake, doesn’t it?
He lets out his breath in a forced huff. “Miss Blanca, I’m sure that this is all something of a shock to you, but we have reason to believe that your mother and your boyfriend were both killed by the same perp, who also assaulted you and may have reason to cause you harm.”
“He’s after me now?”
“That’s why we brought you into police custody,” Drisklay says. “For your protection.”
“But I thought ...” I pause, trying to remember everything that happened from the moment I woke up. “They said that ...” I look around at the interrogation room, realizing this meeting has nothing to do with my father. Confusion morphs to relief, relief that lasts for all of a second. Then full realization of everything else sweeps over me. My mother is dead. And Chris.
This isn’t some sort of mistake then. It’s true. It really happened.
And I don’t remember a single thing.