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I
was back in the interrogation room. Only this time, I was the suspect rather than a victim. My hands were cuffed in front of me while an officer stood outside the door in case I tried to make a run for it.
My brain could not comprehend the severity of the situation. I was being accused of the murder of the same person that I had been mourning? They had already confiscated all of my belongings, including my phone. I tried to push away my disbelief, anger, and guilt to come up with what I was going to do now.
The officer standing outside was eyeing me suspiciously. I do not blame him. It was a perfect crime. Pretend to love the person and then kill them when they least suspect it for your own gain, except that it was not. I did not kill him. Was I to blame? Yes. Yes, I was. If he had never met me, he would have never gotten involved with my problems, which ultimately led to his death.
The worst part was that I still had no idea who did it. Hell, I was no closer to unraveling any of the secrets. The fear that Andrew's death amounted to nothing was gnawing at me, eating me alive.
The door opened to reveal Detective Ocon. Last time, I did not want to meet his eyes because I knew I would find pity. This time, I did not want to meet his eyes because I did not know what I would find. He sat down on the chair opposite mine. “Ms. Frietz, do you have an attorney coming in?” he asked, an undertone of disgust in his voice. He said my last name. He did not want to be associated with a murderer.
I shook my head no. I knew there were people observing this behind the glass. I knew they all thought I had killed him. I finally looked up to meet Detective Ocon’s eyes. Resentment.
Nothing but passionate resentment. It felt like I was receiving my sentence before the trial had even started. “On the night of November 8th, where were you?” he asked me. “I was at home.” “Is there anyone who can confirm your whereabouts?” “No. I was alone.”
“When did you last see Mr. Andrew?” “November 4th. We had gone to my ancestral home together.” “Why?” I stopped there. What do I tell him? If I tell him the truth, I am going to have to explain everything. Will he even believe me? “On vacation.” At this point, he produced the bag containing the bloody pocketknife. “Is this yours?” I could not focus. I could not stop staring at the blood on the knife. This was all that was left of him. This was Andrew.
My Andrew. I have to save him from this hellhole. Without thinking, I picked up the bag. Detective Ocon immediately sprang from his seat. “Ms. Frietz, put that down.” I couldn't hear anything over the noise of my own thoughts. It was like a torrent of consciousness had splashed on me and was ready to rip me to shreds. I have to save him.
I have to get him out of here. Detective Ocon was now at the door and shouting at someone. I tried to get up from my seat, keeping my eyes glued to the knife. I have to run. I will not let him go again. I was handcuffed to the table. I began to pull my hands. I could hear footsteps.
The steel of the handcuff was digging into my palms. It pierced the skin, and a trickle of blood began to flow down my wrist. Someone was shouting my name. I continued to pull. I felt hands on me, trying to seat me again. Someone was trying to take away the plastic bag. No! I continued to hold onto it as my life depended on it. Someone had now pushed down my shoulders, forcing me to sit.
This made me momentarily lose my balance, and the plastic bag was snatched from my hands. “NO! GIVE THAT BACK TO ME! THAT IS THE LAST OF HIM! I CAN NOT LOSE HIM AGAIN! I HAVE TO SAVE HIM! HE DIED BECAUSE OF ME! LET ME GO!!!” I violently struggled against the people holding me. I felt a small prickle on my arm. My surroundings began to blur together. No! I cannot lose consciousness now. Please, someone, help me. Do not make me lose him again. Please....
I woke up on concrete. I did not recognize my surroundings. My head was throbbing like someone was hammering it from the inside. It was dark. It took a while for my vision to adjust to the lack of light. I was lying on the concrete ground. There was a small mattress right beside me. Maybe I fell off of it. There was a small window above that let in some moonlight. I was in a cell. It was dead silent. They took him. I could not save him.
Once again, he was taken away from me. Once again, it was my fault. I began to sob. My sobs resonated throughout the hall. My heart hurts. Everything hurts. I heard footsteps. I cried into my arms. I did not care. The footsteps stopped. I did not care. I refused to look up. I heard metal screeching on concrete. Someone had opened the door. I felt the person standing beside me, observing. I did not care.
Something was laid down beside me. “I hate people like you.” I looked up to see Detective Ocon standing above me. I continued to sob as he looked at me with hatred. Then, he continued. “People like you. People who fool everyone into thinking they are good. People who deceive. You do not deserve to live. How could you kill him? After claiming to love him, how could you do that to him?”
I looked up at him through my tear-filled eyes and whispered, “I did not kill him.” He stared at me and then began to laugh. His laugh got louder. He did not believe me. Then, he abruptly stopped laughing and stared at me again. “If not you, then who? Surely, he did not kill himself. And why would anyone frame you? You could have easily killed him.
He trusted you; you had every chance to kill him. You took advantage of that trust." He was now kneeling beside me and staring dead into my eyes. I stayed silent. I had no idea what to say to him. He then turned around and walked towards the bars. "My brother was killed. Like this, by the woman he loved. She killed him and burned his body. She did not even spare us a chance to see him. She murdered him in cold blood.
He loved her beyond everything else. He would have given his life for her, so she took it. Then, she played the victim so no one would suspect her, just like you. I could not get him justice; I was too young. But you, I will not let you go. I will make sure you rot behind these bars till the end of your miserable life. People like you do not deserve any sympathy.
Your tears are not fooling anyone. Do not taint his soul with more of your deceit." He left. I sat there alone in the dark. Alone. No one to turn to. Faces flashed before my eyes. Andrew, Dad, Doctor Tsunoda, the lady in the photograph, Annette, Andrew. The tray of food sat beside me all night. It saw the morning light, and so did I. I did not deserve to sleep.
