5. Anna #2
I wait for more than the appropriate amount of time for the SUV to pass by before I dare to peek over the steering wheel, seeing the vehicle heading around the building.
It wouldn’t be weird if it was in the drive-thru lane, but it’s not.
The SUV disappears from sight behind the building, only to come back around and circle the parking lot again.
After ducking down once more, I dare to resurface to find the vehicle pulled into the farthest parking space.
The tiny kernel of hope I had that this is just a coincidence shrivels up and dies at the sight of the tall, sinewy form that emerges from the SUV.
He may not be in uniform, but it is Officer Holt.
With his phone to his ear, he paces around the front of the building, appearing lost in conversation.
It doesn’t escape me, though, that his eyes keep drifting toward the windows, as if he’s looking for someone.
When he doesn’t seem to find what he’s looking for, he moves towards the side of the building and begins peering through those windows as well.
He disappears from view, only to reappear inside the restaurant a moment later, heading into the hallway where I presume the restrooms are.
There’s no mistaking it. He’s clearly casing the joint.
The second he’s out of sight, I turn on the car and flee from the lot.
Am I under police surveillance? Do they think I had something to do with the robbery? Or is Holt in Sebastian’s pocket?
I don’t care if Darcy is still home or not. In fact, I’m hoping she is. The last thing I want is to be alone.
Unfortunately, I’m greeted by nothing but nightlights and a silent apartment. Well, mostly silent. You’d think explosions were going off in the neighboring unit based on the noise and vibrations, no doubt from their television and sound system being placed up against our wall.
Keeping the lights off, I head across the living room to the balcony but don’t step out on it.
Even from behind the glass door, I can still see the street on the other side of the parking lot.
Several dark SUVs drive by over the next half hour, but none of them pull up to the building.
That should be comforting, except I also notice a black and white vehicle in the lot on the other side of the street, despite the dog park having closed hours ago.
And it doesn’t move.
I only dare to step away from the door long enough to head down the hall past Darcy’s room and fetch the binoculars from mine.
Where the vehicle sits, the street lights only illuminate the hood of the car, so I can’t tell if there are any emergency lights on top of the vehicle, and it’s still too dark to see the license plate.
But the color and pattern is unmistakable.
It’s a cop car.
Shit!
They can’t possibly think I had something to do with the robbery…
Right?
What if they’re here for my protection? What if they think I’m still in danger and are just keeping an eye out for me?
But wouldn’t they have told me if that was the case?
And if they’ve been suspicious of me this whole time, I shudder to think what conclusions they’ve come to from watching me.
What normal person never leaves their apartment?
And I can only imagine how my paranoia looks out in public.
The one time they witnessed me venture outside, I had been jumpy and skittish and took off speeding when I noticed Officer Holt tailing me.
What if the police got a warrant to look into my finances and phone records? It would hardly dissuade their suspicions, seeing I have low funds and haven’t called anyone .
They probably think I’m getting a cut from the heist and have been communicating with my accomplices through a burner phone or something.
How else do I justify my presence in town? I moved here without a job lined up, had no connection to the area, and changed my name to keep a low profile.
Hell, I sound suspicious, even to myself.
I am so screwed.
The image of Keith’s blood and brain matter pouring from his skull has continued to randomly pop up in my head since I woke up in the hospital, and every time it does, it’s enough to make me vomit.
So, needless to say, I’ve done everything I can to not think about what happened, but I don’t have a choice now.
If I can offer the police even the slightest, most infinitesimal clue to reassure them that I’m cooperating, I’ll do whatever it takes to get it.
My hands are shaking so badly that it takes me three attempts to open up my text messages. Detective Nash sent me some links to resources on how to recover memories, and most of the articles suggest trying to trigger them through the five senses.
If you remember a certain song playing…
If you were eating a certain food or recall a certain smell…
If you felt either hot or cold…
But most importantly, if it happened in a certain place…
You needed to put yourself in that position. You needed to try to recreate what you do remember.
With the adrenaline, I don’t remember feeling hot or cold, the only smells I can remember are the driver’s mint body wash and something burnt, along with the water from the drainage ditch, I sure as hell wasn’t eating, there wasn’t any music, and there’s no way I’m driving out to the abandoned construction site down by the interstate late at night.
I don’t even want to do it during the day, but since I don’t have much choice, I’ll have to go out there tomorrow.
For now, all I can do is watch as many hypnosis videos as I can stomach, praying one of them will dislodge something I’ve repressed.
Yeah, fat chance. I eventually make my way back into my bedroom and stay up well into the night, with not much to show for it.
Any of the details I’m able to extract are from the jewelry shop, which surveillance footage probably caught.
And whatever it didn’t, Devin and Mia likely already told the officers about when they were questioned.
All I can remember leading up to the crash is Keith getting shot, and even the details leading up to that are fuzzy at best.
Frustrated, I try as many techniques as I can find, and when that doesn’t work, I put on one of those hour-long nature sound YouTube videos that just consist of rain and thunderstorm noises.
It was suggested that listening to such ambient sounds associated with the event could recreate the memory as I slept, so I turn them on as I settle in.
It’s the only thing I could replicate about that morning, but even that doesn’t sound quite right.
The noises you hear from the rain while you’re standing outside aren’t the same as when you’re driving, and even the videos I listen to that reproduce the effect don’t work either.
All they seem to stir up are nightmares, because the only thing I dream about is that night ten months ago.
When I wake up, my throat feels raw, and I’m not sure if I’ve screamed.
A phantom ache still radiates over my palms and forearms, and the muscles in my back sting.
For a split second, I think I see a figure lurking over my bed—
My fatigue leaves me disoriented, making me far clumsier than I should be, but when I scramble back and turn on the light, no one’s there.
The lingering pains that chased me from my dream subside before I even collapse back onto my bed, but my heart still thunders inside my chest, destroying any chance I have of falling back to sleep. Hell, I don’t even think I want to.
For the first time in months, I crave human connection. I want to be around other people, even if it’s just to feel safer being in numbers.
One of Darcy’s friends must have stayed the night, because I hear two female voices chatting before I even open my bedroom door first thing in the morning.
“Looks like someone had a late night,” Darcy’s friend, Amelia, sing-songs from the sofa upon seeing me. “I take it your date went well?”
Of course she would think that. I may as well be doing the zombie shuffle with the way I drag myself into the kitchen, yawning. Since I’m not about to explain what I was really doing, I play it off coyly, letting her draw her own conclusions.
I know I’ve been standoffish, to say the least, so I do my best to play host and make everyone coffee before offering them the donuts I picked up at the grocery store.
For the first time since moving in, I join my roommate and her friend on the couch and watch whatever reality dating show they’re binging.
They try to catch me up on the insanity of the last eight episodes, and quite frankly, it’s hysterical.
The way they’re gossiping and appear genuinely offended by some of the people, you’d think they actually know these contestants.
Unfortunately, the hours we spend together go by too quickly, because they both have to leave for class at eleven.
Guess there’s no avoiding it.
I’ll have to take the trip out to the construction site. It’s even raining lightly, and it’s only going to get heavier, so I honestly couldn’t ask for better conditions to jog my memory.
Whether I remember something or not, I still need to touch base with Detective Nash and give him the details I do have, so I haul myself up off the couch and return to my room for my phone.
I also pick up the list I compiled, not particularly blown away by any of the details.
Eye color.
Estimated heights.
All appear to be right-handed.
All had generalized midwestern American accents (Twitchy could possibly be from Chicago. It’s not as if he was talking like he belonged in the “Bill Swerski’s Superfans” sketch, but there were a few inflections that could hint towards a Chicagoan accent. But really, I can’t say for sure.)
The tallest used the term “Hoss.” I’m only familiar with it because my grandfather used to watch Bonanza , but an internet search confirms that it’s also a Southern term of endearment. He didn’t speak with the corresponding accent, however, so I doubt that’s helpful either.
The only detail I have outside of the shop is that I remember Mr. Blue Eyes rolling his right shoulder several times as he was driving, like it pained him.
He hadn’t been doing it in the shop, but maybe swinging those hammers repeatedly had flared up an old football injury or something.
Again, not much, but it’s all I have to offer.
I begin to text Detective Nash to arrange a sit-down when I get a message from Darcy.
Hey, I didn’t want to put you on the spot in front of Amelia, and really, it’s no big deal, but next time you have a guy over, can you text me to let me know?
Shit.
Even though my date was imaginary, I didn’t take into account that, yes, Darcy might not be comfortable with a stranger in the apartment.
Sure. Sorry for not giving you a heads-up.
Lol He just about scared the crap out of me when he walked out of the bathroom.
My blood may as well be made of ice, because what?
Surely she has to be kidding…
But she’s not.
My fingers begin flying over the keypad on my phone, demanding to know what exactly she saw, but I never get that chance to hit send .
I barely hear the creek of the floorboard behind me before a gloved hand slams over my mouth. It yanks me backward, and I slam into the front of a lean but very solid body.
“You really are quite the troublemaker,” he purrs, prying the phone out of my hand.