Chapter 41
Chapter
Forty-One
In a strange and secure space that I had forgotten existed, I allow myself to be taken care of, to relish the security of the doctors and nurses, and of my mother.
It’s as if I’m a child again. It had been a long time since I experienced that sense of being cared for.
Nevertheless, I fall into the routine without question or fight.
My body needs to heal. That’s what I’ve been told.
My injuries were worse than Julie’s. Instead of gardening tools, I was sexually assaulted with scissors.
Thankfully, I have no memory of it happening, nothing after Keith’s appearance in the cottage.
The hospital therapist says that with time I may remember more.
For now, she says my mind, or the GHB they found in my system, has my horrific memories blocked.
Though most of the liquid had been discarded, the drug was found in trace amounts in my iced-tea glass.
I remember pouring it for my dinner and forgoing it for wine.
I answer all the questions first from Deputy Ford, and then from Sheriff Manes and the Michigan State Police, though I know I’m no help.
My memories are all disconnected, unrelated pieces of film spliced together—a movie not meant for viewing.
They ask to see my belongings, particularly my laptop and phone.
I’m not sure if I was supposed to survive. The woman Theo mentioned in Marquette didn’t. Marty didn’t. Julie did. However, if survival was a possibility, it seems my attacker’s goal was to ensure that I would never again carry a child.
The jury is still out on that, though. Dr. Chaudhry promised that my surgery was successful and there is hope. Regardless, with the damage to my cervix, any pregnancies would be high risk, but there is always adoption.
I am well aware.
The story I’ve been told was that when I didn’t answer Olivia’s call, she called our father.
He rushed out to the cottages and found me bleeding and lying partially in the water, on the shore of Stark Lake. I was alone. No one else was found on the Harrisons’ property.
I tell the police everything I recall as the pieces reconnect.
After Liv left, I locked the back door. The two of us had been on the front porch, drinking wine.
Liv confirmed my account. Then, I recall that Keith Gilbert entered through the front door of the cottage, and we discussed the cases as we had been doing for days.
He said he came to warn me about something, but the end of our conversation is foggy.
I admit things felt off, but I can’t make myself accuse him of my attack.
As a matter of fact, I’m concerned about him. “What about Keith? Is he all right?” I continue to ask.
For days on end, I receive no information regarding Craig’s brother. At first, the subject of Keith seems to be off-limits with anyone. Whenever I mention him, Mom and Liv quickly change the subject. And then, I learn an arrest was made and friends and family began to fill in the blanks.
The morning after my attack, Keith Gilbert was located sleeping in his truck in the parking lot at Brooks Park, outside Blue Gil. That would mean he would have passed my father on the road, yet my father doesn’t recall any traffic. He said his mind wasn’t on other cars but getting to me.
They claim Keith was intoxicated—blackout drunk.
I know he doesn’t drink to excess.
Forensics determined that there was trace evidence on his shirt, blue jeans, and boots. It’s my blood. His fingerprints were also found and identified in cottage two.
I told the police he had been there, so his prints were to be expected. I refuse to confirm that he hurt me.
I don’t need to.
The most damning evidence, what ensured an arrest, was discovered in cottage four, the one he rented. In a Ziploc baggie within the freezer was one set of eyeballs—Marty’s. And in the sink were the scissors used in my assault. No one besides Becky and Keith had a key to enter the cottage.
“We didn’t need keys when we phrogged these cottages.” I recall Liv’s words.
There isn’t much more than circumstantial evidence regarding Julie’s attack—Keith was sighted at the party. He has no alibi for the night before the search.
No one, even Liv, mentions the game.
Was Keith a player or an unwilling participant?
Does anyone care?
Regardless of me not pressing charges, Keith Gilbert was charged with one count of first-degree murder (Marty Thompson) and two counts of aggravated assault (Julie and me).
Through it all, he maintains his innocence.
Although his parents provided him with a top attorney from Detroit, the Mills County judge denied bond.
“Blue Gil is safe,” my mother says. “Keith is being held up north at a maximum-security facility until his trial.”
And after my release from Bronson Hospital, Blue Gil is where I am, back at my parents’ home in my old bedroom.
“What about Craig’s death?” I ask. “Do they think Keith could be responsible?”
“It was an accident,” my mom reminds me.
“But his eyes?”
She shakes her head and wrinkles her nose. “It’s gruesome, but his eyes weren’t removed with the precision of Marty’s. The coroner believes it’s a coincidence. They were removed by animals, probably birds. Maybe Keith removed Marty’s eyes in retaliation for Craig’s being missing?”
I’m probably the only person in Blue Gil who isn’t convinced of Keith’s guilt. Nevertheless, the evidence supports the masses.
A week after my return to my parents’ home, I’m surprised by a visit from my boss and visual-effects supervisor. In the middle of the afternoon, there’s a knock on my bedroom door.
“Jillian, you have a visitor,” my mother’s voice comes through a small opening.
I don’t fight company.
I don’t seek it, but I have no reason to fight. Women from Mom’s church come by now and then. The neighbor Sally is a daily visitor.
“Come in.” My voice is sounding closer to normal. Like the others, I was also strangled.
Mom’s smile fills the space before she opens the door wider. Behind her I see Echo Wallis, all five feet, three inches of Hollywood power standing at the threshold of my bedroom in Blue Gil, Michigan.
Echo’s smile is feigned, yet she’s here.
“I think we should leave research to what we can find on the internet and case studies from now on,” Echo says.
With her assistance, Echo and I move to sit out by my parents’ pool. With my mother supplying more snacks and lemonade than two people need, and a beautiful late spring day, we talk.
“Have they arrested that detective from Marquette?” she asks once we’re alone.
“Yes, but...”
“But what?”
“I met Keith. We were…friends.” I try to recall the particulars. “I don’t think it was him.”
“Jill, did you read my email?”
Email?
I purse my lips. “Echo, I’m sorry. The police still have all my electronics. I haven’t accessed anything since...that night.”
She leans forward. “Do you remember me telling you that I’d try to do some research too?”
I nod.
She lifts her phone. “I’m paraphrasing, but here’s what I sent.” She takes a deep breath and begins, “Late November of last year, in Marquette, a woman was killed.” She looks up. “Her name was Diana James, and she was strangled and assaulted.”
My hand goes to my still-tender neck. “I’ve heard that name before.”
“Jill, she was assaulted,” Echo continues, “sexually...with an inanimate object.”
“Similar to Julie and me.”
Echo nods. “Keith Gilbert, your coach’s brother—the man arrested—worked the case.”
I recall what Theo Morton had said. “Oh, yes, I was told about it. The case is cold.”
“They’re revisiting it now.”
I shake my head. “Now I remember the name. I think she’s the one who Craig had a relationship with, before coming to Blue Gil.”
My supervisor leans back in her chair and exhales. “The evidence is mounting. Keith Gilbert is connected to all the victims through his brother.”
“I just don’t think Keith would hurt me.”
Echo reaches out and lays her hand on my knee. “He won’t. He’ll be found guilty. Once he’s convicted, he’s not getting out of prison. You’re safe.”
We spend the next few hours reminiscing. She tells me what’s happening at the studios and the plans for next season. “We need you back, Jill.” Her smile is now sincere.
“I’m not sure.”
She wrinkles her nose. “You don’t want to stay here. You have a career in California, and you’re damn good. The studio has made the payments on your place. It’s waiting for you to move back.”
I had been thinking about my job and my future. It isn’t that I don’t enjoy what I do; it’s that it’s now changed. “I’m not sure,” I tell her honestly, “that I can look at the stories objectively.”
Echo sits straighter. “Then don’t. Give us the authenticity that only you can.”
“Are you sure?”
“Jill Thorne, choosing you for an internship was one of my best decisions. We want you back.”
Like a much-needed bolt of energy, Echo’s visit gives me strength.
Her encouragement gives me a reason to heal, to go beyond and survive.
It’s a process, one that takes time, more time than I want to give, yet I do as the doctors tell me.
I talk to the counselors and complete physical therapy.
I rest, eat, and stay away from alcohol.
The police return my phone and laptop. When I ask about my notebook, I’m told there wasn’t a notebook at the scene. It’s also not among the things Becky brought from the cabin.
It’s as different memories return that one night I wake in a cold sweat. I’m back in the cottage, hearing Keith’s warnings, the ones the GHB or trauma blocked.
Though the town is satisfied with his arrest, I can’t shake the things I now recall him saying about Serena.
In the middle of the night, I grab my phone and write a long, informative, and winded email to the attorney in California, the one who facilitated the adoption of my baby boy.
I willingly admit that this may be the ramblings of a confused person, but I feel the need to warn my son’s parents that there may be a woman or perhaps a man in custody who could be a danger to him and maybe them.
More time passes.
Julie joins her class in graduation.
I don’t attend.
Despite our similar stories, Julie and I are not close. That awkward hug she gave me in the park what seems like a lifetime ago is the perfect representation of our connection—forced.
Summer moves on.
My healing continues.
Like the tall trees I enjoyed outside the cottage, I have withstood tremendous winds, lived under a layer of ice and isolation, and taken the nourishment their roots provide. I’m still here, my family keeping me planted as my branches yearn to rise to the sunny skies.