Chapter Five #2
“All I know is that someone was in the road. I don’t know who.
I remember swerving to miss them and then nothing.
I might have hit my head on the steering wheel.
” I press my fingers against the spot on the side of my head.
It’s sore, but there’s no cut. “After that, the next thing I remember is waking up to you knocking on my door.”
Jake writes everything I’m saying down in his notepad, the scribbling of the pen louder than usual. Every curve from the letters made with the ballpoint, every dot of the i’s and cross of the t’s, is like a loud, constant scratch echoing all around me.
“Could you identify this guy? From mugshots? Or give a description to the sketch artist?”
I hold the mug for warmth to bring comfort. “No. It was so dark, and it was raining. I’m sorry, Jake. I’ll do whatever you need me to, but I swear, I did not kill that poor man.”
“Eh, don’t feel too bad for the guy who died,” Zig says, sighing after taking a sip of coffee. “él era un maldito pervertido.”
My eyes round in shock, nearly causing me to spit out my coffee. “What do you mean he was a pervert?”
“Our victim is a convicted sexual offender. I don’t know if that was the reason for his death. He won’t be missed by any means, but we still have to do our jobs.”
“Unfortunately,” Waylon grumbles.
“Regardless of how he will or won’t be missed”—Jake exhales in exasperation—“we still have a job to do. Someone died last night, and one of our officers was there, whether she can remember it or not. It’s important we figure out who was in the middle of the road.
The facts are on our side. It’s clear the body wasn’t hit by your car.
There’s no blood on the front bumper, nothing like that.
You hit a tree, but the real question remains.
Who was in the middle of the road, and was he the person who killed the victim?
If he is, that’s dangerous. Any person who is ripping out spines doesn’t deserve to be on the street.
This could lead to other killings if he is new to town. We have to stay vigilant.”
“Yes sir,” Waylon says.
“You got it, Boss,” Zig mirrors Waylon.
“Whatever you need from me, I’ll do the best I can, Sheriff.”
Jake nods, closes his notepad, and clicks his pen. “Just do your best to remember everything you can. The more details we have, the better.”
“I’ll think long and hard. I hope my memory will come back, and I can fill in some of those blanks.”
“Great.” Jake stands, and his deputies follow.
I don’t. I remain seated because if I stand, I think I’ll pass out from the shock of it all.
“I’ll keep you updated. Don’t leave town, Lula,” he warns.
I stare at him incredulously. “Seriously, Sheriff? Where am I going to go? Are you sure you don’t need my badge until the investigation is closed?”
He places his hat on his head. “No, Lula. I refuse for my only detective to get her badge revoked over something that wasn’t her fault.”
“I don’t want you to get in trouble either,” I point out.
“I’m the one who makes the decisions at my department, Detective. No one else. Don’t worry about me.”
Jake opens the door to see two people standing there in black jackets.
A mist of rain collecting on their windbreakers and dribbling down their sleeves.
The woman to the right has big, round glasses that are slightly fogged from the weather, and the man beside her is tall and slender, with a balding head.
Both are carrying a kit of some kind.
“Savannah. Bill,” Jake greets. “What are you doing here?”
“Well, we heard you were at the suspect’s house, and we need to collect evidence from everywhere. The crime scene itself has been taken care of already, but—” she peeks around Jake to stare at me. “But she might have evidence on her too.”
Oh, no.
“Shouldn’t this be done at the hospital, then? You aren’t going to bombard her in her home.”
“I don’t mind giving them whatever they need. I’d rather have the privacy, Sheriff. If that’s okay?” I ask him, clutching the opening of my robe to hide the dried black liquid that’s on my chest.
Whatever they do, they can’t find that. They will have questions, and I truly don’t have the answers.
“I don’t think I have anything helpful for you, but I’ll try.”
“Come on in, then. Make it quick. We’ve taken enough of the Detective’s time.”
“It’s fine, Sheriff. I really don’t mind. I want to know what happened just as much as you do.”
Granted, from the small glimpses entering my mind, I have a twisted feeling that I already know what happened—a twisted nightmare can’t be proven.
“?Estás bien?” Zig sits down in the chair next to me, picking up his coffee mug again. He sits back, lifting his brows in concern.
Blowing a breath, I lift a shoulder, tapping my fingernails on the table. “I don’t know if I’m okay,” I admit, exhaustion hitting me. “I’m telling the truth, Zig. I really don’t know what happened last night, but I didn’t kill that man. I would never do that. Not unless I was protecting myself.”
“Maybe he was the guy in the middle of the road? Maybe he attacked you, and you don’t remember. Trauma does that to the brain,” he states, bringing up an excellent point.
“Maybe, but I saw a lot of horrible things when I worked in the city. This doesn’t even make the top ten. It doesn’t make sense for me to forget.”
Zig places his hand on top of mine, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Another gut-wrenching urge has me tugging my hand away from his touch, even though I know he means no harm.
Every touch feels wrong when it doesn’t belong to the monster I dreamed of.
The forensic team follows behind Jake, and Waylon trails in behind them, his eyes cold and narrow as if he doesn’t trust them.
“Detective, do you have the clothes you were wearing last night by any chance? We’d like to collect them for evidence,” Savannah states, placing her kit on the dining room table.
“Um. I think so? I don’t remember how I got undressed, so let me go check.” Standing, I rush to my room with every single person following me.
My right to privacy is out the window, I guess.
The clothes are on the floor next to the bed, completely shredded into useless scraps of material. Confused, I bend down to pick them up. There’s a slight tremble in my hand when I give them to Savannah.
“They are torn to pieces. Do you have any marks on your body? Any wounds?” She lifts what was once my shirt into the air. and I’m able to see her face through the long gashes in the material.
I loved that shirt.
Damn it.
“No, nothing like that. I’m fine. Physically. There isn’t a mark on me. Can we make this quick?”
Savannah places my clothes into an evidence bag, sealing it shut, and begins to examine my room. Before she can take another step, my hand is on her chest, stopping her.
“I don’t know why you think you are comfortable enough to examine my room without a warrant, but you are mistaken. I am being cooperative. Don’t even think for a second you can take advantage of that.”
“Detective,” Jake warns.
“No, she’s right, Sheriff Holland. Apologies, Detective Sanchez. I meant nothing by it. If you could come to the kitchen so I can collect samples from you, that would be very helpful.”
“Of course.” I stand in the doorway, stretching my arm out to urge them to leave my room.
One by one, they trail out the door. Waylon is the last one out, shooting me a wink of support. Snagging the handle, I take a quick peek around my room to see if there is anything out of place that I need to be worried about.
The picture of my parents is turned around. The aged backside is tinted yellow, and the cursive writing from my mom can be seen, showing the date when the photo was taken.
I never have that photo flipped over.
Someone was in my room, and I’m going to make it my mission to find out who. This person invaded me, my home, and my sense of safety.
This is personal now.
Closing my eyes, I gain my composure as I shut the bedroom door, not wanting them to see how worried I am. Taking a seat at the four-person dining room table, Savannah begins to collect her evidence.
From hair, to scraping under my nails, to swabbing the inside of my cheek, I’m certain she has gotten everything she could possibly need.
“If you don’t remember anything—”
“—Not if,” I correct her, narrowing my eyes at her audacity for calling me a liar. “I don’t remember anything.” Savannah causes my trigger finger to flex.
“Right. Of course. I’m saying maybe there’s something in your blood. Maybe you were drugged. It would explain it.”
“So would hitting the steering wheel and getting a concussion.” I turn to Jake. “She works for the department?”
I find her incompetent.
“Let her take all the samples she needs so you can officially be off the suspect list, Lula. And then we will be on our way. Stay home today, and I’ll call you with any updates.”
“This is ridiculous.” I shove the robe sleeve up my arm, allowing her to draw the blood she needs.
“Woah, that’s interesting.” Savannah lifts the vial into the air, the overhead light reflecting off the tube.
The air around me becomes hard to breathe when I see the color of my blood in the small glass tube. Suddenly, my house doesn’t seem so cozy with so many people standing around me.
Savannah twists and turns the vial, her eyes laser-focused on my blood inside the glass.
Blood is red.
Mine?
For the first time in my life, it isn’t only red, but black swirls have mixed in that remind me of the way smoke drifts.
“You don’t remember being drugged?” Savannah questions me again, never taking her attention away from the vial.
I clench my teeth together and dig my nails into the table. “For the thousandth time, I don’t remember anything. I only remember swerving off the road because someone or something was standing in the middle of it. That’s all I have for you, okay? That’s it. I need you all to leave. Now.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you upset. I’m only trying to understand why your blood would be like this.”
“I’ve never seen anything like that either.” Jake leans in closer to get a better look.
“And if I had any answers to give you, I’d give them to you. Instead, you keep asking me if I remember when I’ve said I don’t. Take your vial and your other samples and get off my property. All of you.” I drag my eyes from Savannah to Jake. “Please,” I add, doing my best not to cry.
I always cry when I get too upset, and the last thing I want to do is cry in front of my new coworkers.
“Of course, Detective Sanchez,” Sheriff says in an understanding, yet remorseful tone. “Come on, everyone. Let’s respect Lula’s privacy. Zig. Waylon. Let’s go,” Jake orders.
Zig stands, pouring his coffee down the sink and setting his mug on the counter. His hand lands on my shoulder, giving it a supportive squeeze.
“Todo estará bien,” he says.
Yeah, well, it doesn’t feel like everything is going to be okay.
Waylon is next to pour his coffee down the sink. “Hang in there, Detective. Evidence will be on our side. You’re one of us. We have your back.” He slaps the same shoulder that Zig squeezed, and I nearly fly out of my chair.
“Thanks, Waylon. I appreciate it.”
Savannah and Bill leave without giving me another look. Good. Everything that has happened has been beyond normal. I rub my temples, wondering how the hell I have been in this town for less than three days and somehow now need to prove my innocence.
Jake watches as they leave through the front door. The only person left in the house is him.
He grips the back of a chair with both hands and hangs his head.
“I know this is stressful. Usually, stuff like this doesn’t happen.
Well, that would be a lie, but it has toned down some.
I’m sorry you’re caught in the middle of what’s going on, but I’m on your side, okay?
If you need anything, let me know. I’ve put a rush on your blood samples.
I want to know as soon as possible. You’ll be okay, Lula. ”
“It doesn’t feel like it, Sheriff.”
“Jake. Just call me Jake right now. I’m not here as your boss. I’m here as a friend—even if we barely know each other. You’re one of my cops. That means you’re family now.”
I swipe my fingers under my eyes to gather the tears before they break. “I promise, Jake, I didn’t kill that man.”
“I know you didn’t. Evidence already proves that. It’s why I’m not taking your gun and badge.”
“Then, why can’t I go to work? I have case files I need to work on.”
“Because you were in a car accident. You were part of something horrible that happened, and we need to figure out what it is. You’ll rest here at home today, okay? I won’t hear another word about it.”
I sit there, debating if I want to tell him the truth about what I did see. Do I tell him someone was in my house? A flipped photo isn’t enough proof for Jake to believe me. He might think I’ve lost my mind.
“Before I leave, I’m going to ask one more time, do you have anything you want to tell me?” He lifts his eyes, peering at me through the shadows of his eyelashes.
“No. I’m sorry, Jake. I don’t have anything. If I do, I’ll call you, okay?”
“Okay. Try to relax, okay? And I’m sorry about your car; it will be a while before I can get a new one with the budget.”
“I have a Chevy Impala in the garage. I’ll use mine.”
“An Impala? Damn, rub it in a man’s face, why don’t you?”
I manage to smile through all the truths I’m keeping. “Maybe I’ll let you drive it one day. If you’re good.”
He snorts as he walks to the front door. “There go my chances.” Jake steps outside, giving me a curt nod before shutting the door.
Flying out of my seat, I sprint to lock the door and press my back against the wall.
“Everything will be fine. Last night was a nightmare, but what you thought you saw was just a bad dream. That’s it. Nothing more.”
I don’t care that I don’t know how I got home, or undressed, or my clothes shredded, or the message on my mirror, or the dried substance on my chest—I’m just glad I’m alone.
Growing up, my parents always told me I was a beacon for trouble, as it loved to find me. Granted, I’ve always loved the thrill of the dangers in life, it’s why I became I cop. I wanted to dive into a world where I could protect people and get what I crave.
I never really believed my parents.
Until now.
I should have told Jake the truth, and yet, the thought of speaking against the monster that was in my bed leaves a bad taste in my mouth.