| |
“How are you doing?” Sandy asks. It’s sweet that she’s still here. That she’s so concerned about me. It’s getting late. She has her own family to take care of, but she hasn’t left my side.
“I could use some more Tylenol,” I say.
While she goes out to find me some pain pills, Drisklay lays photographs on the desk in front of me. “This is where we found your mom,” he says, pointing to a picture of the living room of our cabin. It’s been a couple hours already, and I have no idea how long it will be until my memory resets again.
I rehearse everything in my head, from the most basic — Mom and Chris are dead — to the crime scene details Drisklay’s described. It was my best friend Kelsie who found Mom inside the cabin. Knife wounds. Blunt force trauma. Drisklay hasn’t shown me the pictures of her body, thank God. It’s hard enough looking at the blood stains on the cabin floor. Kelsie’s boyfriend was there too. Performed CPR.
If only he could have saved her.
When and how Chris was killed is still anybody’s guess. Up until his body was discovered by fishermen this morning, police assumed he was the culprit.
How are you supposed to react when you learn both your mom and your boyfriend have been killed? Whenever I think about Chris, I feel terrible that I’m not grieving for Mom. Sandy says that sometimes you need to mourn in procession. First for one. Then for the other.
It’s not a journey I’m looking forward to embarking on.
Which is part of the reason why I’m so intent on staying awake. On helping Drisklay find my attacker, no matter what it takes. I have no idea how long my memory of today will last, but I do know from what Sandy and Drisklay both have said that if I fall asleep, it’ll be a total reset. Like shutting down your computer when you’ve forgotten to save your documents. Except in my case, there’s no cloud storage backing it all up. Or if there is, I have no idea how to access it.
“Can you tell me about your relationship with Gomez?” Drisklay asks. He’s been surprisingly polite ever since I refused to leave and spend the night at Sandy’s.
It feels weird talking to this middle-aged man about my boyfriend. What does he want to know? I tell him that we were in a few of the same classes at school, how we got closer once he started coming to youth group. I tell the detective about Chris’s father. I think that must be important, but apparently Drisklay knows Mr. Gomez even better than I do and doesn’t need me to fill in any of those details.
“Have you talked with his dad?” I ask Drisklay.
“He’s certainly kept our interest throughout this investigation,” is his cryptic response.
Sandy comes back. Hands me three more pills. “You sure you should take that many?” she asks.
No, I’m not sure, but it’s the only chance I have to keep my brain even halfway alert. Tylenol, coffee, and chips from the vending machine down the hall. Sandy tells me one of my symptoms from my injuries is nausea, but so far, I’m doing okay in that respect.
She stays on one side of the room, dozing every so often in an oversized chair while Drisklay hands me photograph after photograph. One thing he wants me to do is look at everything in the cabin, find out if anything might be missing. It looks just like our cabin always has, except of course for the blood stains on the floor, the broken glass, the overturned coffee table.
“Is this jogging any memories whatsoever?” Drisklay asks.
“No.” I wish I had another answer to give. I’ve taken AP psychology. I know how the brain works. The memories have to still be there somewhere, right? I just need to access them.
I yawn and stretch. The physical movement makes me realize I’m still hungry. “I’m going to the vending machine.”
Drisklay doesn’t argue.
I slip by Sandy, who’s sleeping with her head resting on her shoulder so she looks like a human-sized mother bird. I check to see how much change I have in my pocket from the ten-dollar bill she loaned me earlier. I’m trying to decide if I feel like a granola bar or some trail mix when I hear a loud grunt.
“Look. It’s the spoiled little rich girl who got me into this mess in the first place.”
I snap my head up, trying to remember where I’ve seen this man before.
He spits in my direction while two officers struggle to hurry him past. “Yeah, I know you. Filling my boy’s head with your religious trash ...”
Drisklay appears in the hall the moment I realize I’m staring at Chris’s father. The detective yells at the officers, telling them to keep their man away from his station, then turns to me.
“Come on,” he says gruffly. “Next time you want a snack, you tell me what to get. No more wandering the hallways alone.”
I feel like a guilty dog who’s been caught rummaging through the trash, and I follow Drisklay with my head bowed. Seeing Chris’s dad reminds me how real this case is. How real and how dangerous.
“Are they arresting him?” I ask once we’re back at Drisklay’s desk.
“All he’s here for is to answer some questions.”
I wonder how common it is to bring an innocent person in for questioning at this time of night, but Drisklay doesn’t seem to be in a very talkative mood. Seeing Mr. Gomez has reminded me of something.
Something I think I should have remembered. Something I think must be important.
“Chris hates his dad,” I tell Drisklay.
“I know,” is all he answers.
“He’s really mean. Like, abusive and stuff.”
Drisklay nods. “I know.”
Well, if he knows all that, I want to ask him why he hasn’t arrested Mr. Gomez already, but I’m still busy trying to pinpoint what it is I’m supposed to recall.
Think, Mia. Think.
All of our talking has woken Sandy up. She comes over, giving my back a gentle rub. “You’ve had a long night, huh?” she says. “You sure you don’t want to get some rest? You could even nap right here. That office chair isn’t half bad if you’re in need of a snooze.”
I shake my head. I can’t sleep. Can’t afford to lose everything I’ve learned yet again. I really should start writing notes to myself so when I do forget, I won’t have to waste time getting reminded. But writing notes would mean slowing down right now, and I’m so close to figuring it out. I know that I am. I just need a little more time ...
“Chris wrote his dad a letter,” I announce, feeling both proud of myself for retrieving this lost piece of information and hopeful that it will give Drisklay the missing piece he needs to solve this case and put Chris’s dad away for good.
“A letter,” I repeat. Saying the words brings the rest of the memories rushing back. “Chris wanted to become a pastor. He told his dad before we drove out to the cabin. And I was worried because I knew his dad would be angry ...”
“Mr. Gomez has an alibi.” Drisklay doesn’t even look up from the file he’s perusing.
“What?”
“An alibi. It wasn’t him. We’ve got a dozen witnesses who place him at work that afternoon, and the place’s got him on their security camera too. It wasn’t Gomez.”
“But he could have sent somebody,” I say, feeling more uncertain with each word. “If he was angry enough, he might have ...” I let my voice trail off when I see the incredulity in Drisklay’s face. Half the time, Chris’s dad is too drunk to buy more beer, let alone hire someone to stage such an elaborate and violent assault.
If Chris’s father wasn’t the attacker, I need to remember something else. It’s turning into a very long night, but as heavy as my eyelids are, I can’t let myself sleep.
“Can I have another cup of coffee?” I ask the detective, remembering how upset he got at me for going to the vending machine on my own. It’s not until Drisklay leaves that I realize I still haven’t had anything else to eat, either.
Sandy gives me a reassuring hug. “You’re doing great, sweetie. I’m so proud of you.”
“You really don’t have to stay here,” I tell her. “I know it’s getting late.”
She frowns and cocks her head to the side like she’s studying me for a test. “I don’t mind.”
I think about Sandy’s family, about her husband and son. “You should go on home and get some rest.”
It takes several more times to assure Sandy that I really will be okay without her, and she agrees to go.
“Was that the pastor’s wife taking off?” Drisklay asks when he returns, handing me a mug of coffee as well as a store-bought Danish.
“Yeah. It’s getting late.” For a second, I think about asking Drisklay if he needs to go home soon too, but then I change my mind.
The coffee is hot and strong. There’s no sweetener, so I alternate between bites of the oversweet Danish and sips of the black coffee. Soon my thinking clears, and my headache eases up a little more.
Sugar and caffeine. God’s wonder drugs.
Drisklay pulls out the stool he’s been sitting on all night. “All right,” he says. “Let’s see what else you can remember.”