by Alana Terry
Drisklay gives me far too many details about Chris’s discovery. “Unfortunately, because of the degree of decomposition, we can’t determine Gomez’s direct time of death.”
I wish Drisklay would stop talking about my boyfriend like this, but I suppose he’s got to stay somewhat clinical to keep on doing the work he does day in and day out.
“Because we don’t know exactly when he died,” Drisklay continues, “we can’t recreate the line of events. Did the attacker come after you and then Gomez tried to stop him?”
Yes, that sounds exactly like what Chris would do.
“The fact is,” Drisklay says before I can respond, “we simply don’t know. For now, let’s just assume that Chris was an unfortunate bystander and that whoever came to your cabin was after you or your mom.”
I’m trying to follow his line of reasoning, but I’ve grown so tired the room has started to spin. I’ve got the sense that I’m rocking slightly back and forth, but that could also be my vision blurring in and out of focus.
“Think,” Drisklay tells me. “Who might have reason to attack you? Why would anybody want to do that?”
The truth? My mom was the kindest, most generous woman in the entire world. And I’m not really the sort of girl to walk around school making enemies either, much less enemies who get so upset they go on a killing spree.
“I really don’t know,” I answer. I’m frustrated. Frustrated with the investigation, frustrated with myself. If it weren’t for this stupid brain injury, I could remember everything. Tell Drisklay exactly what he needs to know and get whoever did this behind bars.
It’s infuriating. I need to remember, but it’s not coming to me fast enough. In fact, it’s not coming to me at all. It’s been hours since I recalled what I did about Chris’s letter to his dad, and as it turns out, Drisklay had known about Chris’s note already.
I’ve got to press on. Got to try harder.
But I’m so tired.
“Hey.” It’s not until Drisklay snaps his fingers in front of my face that I realize I’m drifting off. Even after my second mug of coffee.
“Sorry.” I jerk myself alert, but a few seconds later I’m swaying in my seat again.
“Go.” Drisklay points to the oversized chair.
I can scarcely hear him, let alone understand what his gesture is supposed to mean. “Huh?”
“Go.” He points again. “Sleep. You obviously can’t function anymore.” He says the words like it’s something to be ashamed of, but I’m not going to let him dismiss me so easily.
“I can’t,” I argue. “I’ll forget everything.”
“Then I’ll remind you when you wake up.” His words sound like a threat, but he speaks them gently. “Go sleep,” he repeats. “I need you sharp. I need you focused.”
I can’t disagree with him anymore. The truth is I’m too tired to have a clue what I’m doing.
I hate to feel like I’m giving up. I tell myself I won’t really sleep. I’ll just lie down here. Nice and cozy. Oh, a blanket. That’s a surprising touch. I wouldn’t think something like that would even enter Drisklay’s head.
Do I need a pillow? he asks. No. I’m okay. I don’t really plan to doze off. Just rest my eyes. I can use the quiet time to think. Think and try to remember.
The only thing I can’t do is fall asleep. That’s the promise I make to myself. That’s the only reason I allow myself to roll to my side. Shut out the world. Curl up with my knees close to my chest. I’m tired, but I can stay awake a little while longer. This will just give me a chance to think.
There’s got to be more memories stored in this dysfunctional brain of mine. Maybe if I’m real quiet and real still, they’ll come to me.
I just have to stay awake. Whatever I do, I can’t fall asleep ...
CHAPTER 27
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.
CHAPTER 28
“Marco?” My voice is hurried. Desperate. I’ve locked myself in the bathroom of the cabin. A minute is all I have. All I have to save us both.
“Mia?” my brother asks. “Are you okay? I thought you were at the cabin.”
I run the shower water for background noise and clutch my cell to my ear. “I am,” I tell him, “but there’s a problem. Chris is in trouble.”
Marco doesn’t say anything, and for a terrifying moment I’m afraid I’ve lost the connection.
“Marco?”
“I’m here.” My brother’s voice is flat. So emotionless it’s almost eerie.
I want to tell him about the letter. Want to beg him to drive over to Chris’s house and see if he can get into that truck before Mr. Gomez does. If we’re lucky and if God answers my prayers, Chris’s dad will never find out what his son wrote.
It’s the only way I know to keep Chris safe.
“I have a favor to ask you,” I begin. Something’s wrong with Marco. I can tell by the way he’s talking to me, or rather by the way he’s not talking. But
I can’t worry about that now. There’s no guessing what Mr. Gomez will do when he sees Chris’s letter. I can’t let that happen to him. Can’t let that happen to us.
“Now’s not a good time,” Marco says. My palms are so sweaty I’m afraid I’ll drop the phone and crack the screen.
“This is important,” I tell him. “Chris is in trouble.” When was the last time I asked Marco for anything? Doesn’t he realize how serious this is? I wasn’t joking when I told Chris his dad would kill him. I’m afraid for my boyfriend’s safety.
Mine too, if I were to be totally honest.
I hear a loud commotion on the other end of the line. “Where are you?” I ask. It’s too early for my brother to be at a bar or nightclub. What’s he doing?
“Don’t worry about me,” Marco says. His voice is so low I have to strain to hear him. “Listen, there’s something going on. Something I think you should know.”
Yes, there’s something going on. My boyfriend’s in danger. If Mr. Gomez reads that note before Marco can get to it first ...
“Is Chris with you?” Marco asks. His voice is so quiet he has to repeat the question a second time.
“He’s outside,” I answer, even though if I know Chris, he probably followed me into the cabin and is waiting right outside the bathroom door to talk to me. I turn the faucet to give the shower more water pressure, even though I’m not sure how well it covers up my side of the conversation. My brother and I are both whispering, both straining to hear each other speak.
“Mia, listen.” Something about Marco’s voice makes my heart catch in my throat. I feel dizzy and wonder if I still have a pulse. “Is Mom there?”
“What? No. She went to get some groceries. She’ll probably be back in half an hour.”
“That’s not enough time. You and Chris need to get out of there now.”
He’s talking like a crazy man. Crazy and paranoid and doing everything except driving over to Chris’s house to see if that letter is still in his dad’s truck.
“We can’t go anywhere. All our friends will be here soon.”
“You aren’t listening,” Marco snaps, daring to raise his voice. “Chris is in danger.”
It’s the same thing I was trying to tell my brother all along, except I’ve got the horrible feeling we’re not talking about the same danger at all.
“Mia?” There’s a gentle knocking on the bathroom door. It’s Chris. “Mia, are you okay? Can you come out here and let me know you’re okay?”
“What are you talking about?” I hiss into the phone.
“He’ll probably kill me if I tell you this,” Marco begins. I hate the fact that I don’t have to ask him who he’s talking about.
I sink to the bathroom floor, still hanging onto the phone with my sweaty hand and whisper to my brother, “I’m listening.”
CHAPTER 29
“Are you feeling better now?” Chris asks when I step out of the bathroom. I stare out the window, as if the threat Marco warned me about is behind the cabin as we speak. The lake is calm, but my emotions are anything but.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I shouldn’t have done anything without asking you first.”
I don’t know what to say. Can’t even imagine where I’m supposed to begin. My brother’s words are echoing in my ears. Words I’d never expect to believe. Except I do believe them.
“Is this about my dad?” Chris asks. “He really doesn’t care what I do. And if he does, I’m graduating in a week. He can’t dictate my life.”
“What about your sister?” The longer we can keep this conversation focused on his family, the longer I have to compose my emotions. Get a hold of my thoughts. Decide how to escape. My eyes dart everywhere. I never noticed before just how many windows our cabin has.
“I’ve already called Gabrielle’s grandma and told her everything. I can’t explain it, Mia, but this is something I really need to do. I can’t be afraid of him all my life. Gabrielle’s grandma says she’ll watch her. Or maybe I’ll even move her in with me. I don’t know. I just know that I have to do this. And I want you to be there with me.”
It’s this last part that makes me finally break down into tears. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand anything.
It’s my fault, really. He’s told me everything about his family. Everything.
And he still knows nothing about mine.
“It isn’t going to work,” I tell him, burying my head against his chest. My body is trembling, but he feels strong against me.
Chris kisses the top of my head. I wish I could protect him from what I’m about to say.
I realize it would be infinitely easier if he broke up with me, and in that instant I know what I have to do. Know exactly what I have to say.
I pull away from him, not because I don’t need his strength. I do. But I’m going to have to rely on my own determination and willpower now. I can’t lean on him. Not anymore.
I make my way out the back door. Head toward the lake. He chases after me, just like I knew he would.
Halfway to the dock, I find my voice. “I can’t marry you, Chris. I’m sorry. It just won’t work.”
“I know.” He’s following me toward the water now, hasty in his attempts to reassure me. “That was impulsive. That was stupid. I have no idea why I even said those things earlier. Let’s just forget it.”
I keep my back to him so he can’t see the tears streaking down my cheeks. I can’t show him my face or he’ll know. He’ll know and then he’ll try to protect me, try to make it right, and then we’re both as good as dead.
The only thing I can do now is send him away, no matter how hard it hurts. No matter how much it kills me.
I take a deep breath. Ball my hands into fists. I think about what my brother just told me. I’ve got to do this.
“I can’t marry you.” I try to make my voice sound fierce, angry, but I’m not sure it works. I have to do a better job selling it. “I can’t marry you,” I repeat, more firmly this time.
He reaches out. Tries to grab me by the shoulder. I fling his hand away. “Don’t touch me,” I snap.
“Hey.” He holds his hands up in innocence. “It’s me. You know I would never hurt you.”
He’s forcing me to face him. Forcing me to look into his ... No. I can’t. I can’t do this. Not when he’s staring at me like that.
The water from the lake looms large and dangerous in my spinning field of vision. Mom was right. We’re not safe here. What was I thinking? We should head toward the woods. Why did I lead us right to the lake? I spin around and stride toward the trees. Got to keep Chris behind me. Got to keep my eyes hidden or else he’ll know.
“Hey.” He’s sprinting to keep up. Why does he have to be so devoted? “Mia, wait.”
I stop but keep my body angled so he’s staring at the back of my shoulder. I cross my arms. Tell myself I have to be strong. Remind myself that this is for him.
Everything I’m about to do, it’s all for him.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” I stammer. It’ll be easiest for him if I make him mad. If I act irrationally, if I provoke him right where it kills him the most, his love will turn to hate. Even someone as kind and good-hearted as Chris.
I hope.
“Are you mad at me for proposing?” he asks. “If you don’t want to get married now, that’s fine. We don’t have to rush things. We don’t have to ...”
“I’m not going to marry you ever,” I bark, inhaling sharply to try to steady my nerves. I sense him taking a step back as if I’ve given him a physical blow, but I don’t turn to look.
“Because of my dad?” His voice is pained. Close to its breaking point. This isn’t working.
“Yes, because of your dad.” Once we’re standing by our deck, I turn to face him. It’s not hard pretending to be angry. In fact, I’m not pretending at all. The only difference is I’m not angry with him.
I just have to sell it. Got to be convincing.
Got to get him to
storm off into those woods.
Please, God, I beg.
“Listen,” Chris is pleading. “I already told you, he doesn’t care what I do anymore. If you’re worried that he’s going to keep on giving us trouble ...”
“It’s not that, Chris.” I spit out his name like a curse. “It’s not just your dad.”
“Then what is it?”
“I don’t want to be with you, okay? I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and it’s not going to work out. I’m going to New York in the fall. I’m going to become a doctor. I don’t ... I can’t ...”
I see the pain flash in his eyes as realization hits for the first time. “Is that what this is about?”
Sell it, Mia, I coax myself. “Think about it. You ever heard of a pastor married to an MD? What would people think? Listen. I’m going to school. I’m not wasting my life passing out bulletins at the back of a sanctuary and teaching Sunday school every single weekend. That’s not the life I want.”
I’ve got him. The pain in his expression is so intense I could reach my hand out and squeeze it. Now I’ve just got to push him over one more edge. Push him toward anger.
This is for him, I remind myself. You have to do this if you want to protect him.
If life was fair, I would be wearing Chris’s ring right now. I’d tell him I didn’t care about what his dad thought or said. Chris and I could move to New York together. Get married. Share an apartment. I could still go to school. We’d find money somewhere if he wanted to go to Bible college or wherever it is pastors get their training.
I can see Chris as a pastor. And I can see myself as a pastor’s wife, notwithstanding the lies I’ve just told him.
I can see it. And the picture is beautiful.
But it’s not a picture that’s meant for us.
We’re right on the edge. There’s not going to be any recovery from this. The merciful thing now is to finish what I’ve started. Get it over and done with.
For his own good.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I didn’t want to do this until after graduation, but we need to end things.”