Forget Me Now Page 8

  “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.

  CHAPTER 24

  “I’m sorry,” Sandy says as she rushes through the door of the police room. “I came as quickly as I could, but traffic was something awful.” She sweeps by the officer holding open the door and nearly trips on the carpet. I’m out of the cement room at least. The mental health liaison I finally met said I shouldn’t have ever been set up in the interrogation rooms in the first place, explaining that I have to forgive Detective Drisklay, who sometimes forgets the difference between victims and suspects.

  I’m not ashamed to confess that I had a complete breakdown while the detective was questioning me. As soon as I realized this meeting wasn’t about my dad, I stopped focusing on my own survival and understood that everything the police were telling me was true. Mom is gone. So is Chris. Killed.

  By the same person who attacked me and left me with nothing but long-term memories.

  Drisklay couldn’t handle my tears or decipher my sobs, so he pulled the liaison out of whatever it was that she was doing. She was the one who moved us to this more comfortable room and asked if there was anybody I could call. I thought about my dad but decided on Sandy and gave the woman the name of our church.

  Now Sandy’s here, smothering me in hugs and tears. “I’m so sorry you’re going through this, sweetie. I can’t even begin to guess how hard this must be for you.”

  I’ve told the liaison about my headache. She’s going to pull up my medical files to see if I’m on any pain killers. Until then, she tells me to take three Tylenol. It seems like a lot to me, but I’m not going to argue.

  Sandy’s been fretting over me and praying over me since she came in. I think Drisklay and the liaison know it’s time to back off a little on the questioning.

  Once I stop crying, I’m able to put my thoughts into some sort of logical order, or at least I try to. Mom is dead. Not only dead but murdered. The police haven’t given me any more information than that, so I have no idea if she was shot, if she was strangled, drowned. Maybe she was stabbed and left in that cabin to bleed out, terrified and alone ...

  Then they tell me Chris was a suspect at one point, which is absolutely ridiculous, but I can’t be upset about that because now it’s come out that he’s one of the victims. Found in the lake just this morning. The lake by our cabin ...

  But that’s not all. I’ve also learned in the past twenty minutes that I’ve been the victim of a terrible assault that’s robbed me of any ability to form short-term memories. Sandy tells me that every morning I wake up and imagine it’s senior skip day all over again. Like that Adam Sandler movie, except there’s absolutely nothing funny about my situation. Nothing funny at all.

  I have all my memories from before the attack, but Drisklay needs answers about what happened that day. Everyone assumes I was an eyewitness to the crime and that I should be able to give them a name to find justice for the ones I’ve lost.

  Except my mind is a complete blank. It’s not as if I have a vague memory of that day but just run into difficulties pulling up details. It’s as if that day never happened at all. I’m so confused, and I know Sandy’s trying to help, but she’s fretting over me so much now I feel like I’ll suffocate.

  “The doctors thought you’d recover in a week or two at most,” she’s telling me. “It’s been so hard for your family.”

  “I want to go home,” I state, but Drisklay shakes his head.

  “Not possible,” he states flatly.

  “What about with me?” Sandy asks. “What if I took her to my home for the night? She needs sleep. All this stress can’t be good for her.”

  Drisklay frowns as if considering. “If she saw the perp and could give us an ID ...”

  “I keep telling you I don’t remember anything.”

  Sandy gives me another squeeze.

  “I believe you.” It’s possibly the very first thing Drisklay’s said to me all evening that makes me even think he might be on my side. “But it doesn’t matter what I think. If the culprit assumes you have information ...” He doesn’t finish his thought. I imagine that I should be able to connect the dots myself, but I’m so tired and my head hurts too much.

  I’m thankful when Sandy finishes for him. “You think Mia could be in danger?”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “But she’s been safe these past few months, right?” Sandy asks positively.

  Drisklay shrugs. “That was when Gomez was our suspect.”

  “Oh.” Sandy looks at me. “Well, she needs to sleep somewhere. And as far as I can tell, my place is as safe as any.”

  He shakes his head. “Can’t do that.”

  Sandy straightens her back. “And why not?”

  “Because if she goes to sleep now, she wakes up in the morning and we have to go over this entire ordeal all over again.”

  I blink, finally understanding. Is this what it means to suffer the degree of short-term memory loss that I have? That every day I’m destined to wake up and have to learn all over again that the people I love are dead? And that somewhere out there is a man who tried to kill me once and may return at any point to finish the job?

  “But you can’t keep her awake forever,” Sandy protests.

  “It’s okay,” I interrupt.

  She turns to look at me as if she’d forgotten I possess the capacity for human speech.

  “It’s okay,” I repeat. “I can stay awake. Maybe it’ll ...” I glance at Drisklay. “Maybe it’ll help me remember.”

  Now Sandy’s the one frowning, and the detective’s scowl looks one shade less grumpy.

  “What about photos?” I ask. “Something that might help trigger the memories? Do you think something like that might work?”

  Drisklay tosses his Styrofoam cup into the trash and studies me. I can’t tell from his expression if he’s surprised, impressed, or plotting my execution.

  “Are you sure, honey?” Sandy whispers. “This has been a stressful day ...”

  “And tomorrow’s going to be just as stressful,” I remind her. The thought of waking up every single morning only to rediscover the shock that it’s not my senior class trip, that my mother and boyfriend are dead ... I can’t handle that. I have to help the detective as much as I can tonight.

  “But eventually you’ll need to sleep,” Sandy persists, so I tell her when I’m tired, I’ll take a break.

  “Right now,” I conclude decisively, “all I need to do is help the detective solve this case. Which means I need to remember everything.”

  CHAPTER 25

  “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.”

  CHAPTER 26

  It’s past midnight when Drisklay informs me that Chris’s dad has been questioned and released. And even though he didn’t act like the typical parent whose son has been found drowned in a lake, there’s no reason to suspect that Mr. Gomez had anything to do with the attacks.

  “We’ve asked him multiple times about the letter his son wrote,” Drisklay tells me. “Gomez maintains that his son is a fool for wanting to enter into the ministry, but he wouldn’t have bothered going after him. That and the fact that surveillance footage, witness testimony, as well as the GPS in Gomez’s phone and truck all place him at work the afternoon of the attack. He’s not our guy.”

  I hear Drisklay’s words, understand their inherent logic, but still have a hard time letting go of Mr. Gomez as the prime suspect. Because if he didn’t kill Mom and Chris, who did?

  And even more baffling, why?

  Drisklay and the other investigators have already ruled out some kind of burglary gone wrong for about as many reasons as anyone would care to rattle off. Nothing important was stolen from the cabin. The crime took place in broad daylight. And the severity and nature of the injuries suggest a fit of rage as opposed to a botched attempt to steal some valuables.

  Drisklay wants me to stop thinking about the crime scene and go farther back. People who might have been angry at my father and want to take it out on his family. I know Dad has plenty of enemies, but I have no idea who they are. Drisklay even asks about any PTA parents my mom might have ticked off. I laugh when he suggests this before I realize he’s serious.

  No. Nobody on the PTA would have wanted to kill my mom. Besides, why would they go after me and Chris, too?