“No. But you must have been told some of it.”
“David and I left school that day at four fifteen. We were seen leaving together. He texted his parents that he was staying to work with a friend on a school project and they’d grab some dinner. We took my car.”
“Did you have a homework project with him?”
“Apparently not. We only had two classes together, choir and entrepreneurship.”
“Entrepreneurship’s a high school class?”
“At Lakehaven it is.” She paused. “A friend, Trevor Blinn, saw us leave together.”
“You were next-door neighbors. Couldn’t you simply have gone home and talked?”
“Sure. But we didn’t.”
“And there was no text or e-mail communication between the two of you that day? I understand this is how American teenagers make their plans.” He gave a gentle smile.
“No.” Jane shifted in her seat. This had started to feel like an interrogation. Most therapists tried to soften the blows of their questions. Maybe this was his style. “A girl named Amari Bowman said he passed me a note in entrepreneurship, because she sat between us. I mean, note passing isn’t something people do when you could text each other, but in that class, I’m told, we had to turn in our phones at the beginning of class and got them back at the end. We each had a slot for our phone.”
“What did the note say?”
“I didn’t keep it. I don’t know.” Her gaze had gone to the floor.
“You don’t know where this note is now?”
“I presume I threw it away. Or it was lost at the hospital when they cut my clothes off me.” She kept staring at the floor. “It probably said, ‘Meet me after school.’ Since that’s what we did.”
“So for six hours, the two of you were out and about, and no one knows what you were doing. How difficult that must be for you.” Finally, his tone of voice softened.
“We were seen around town in the course of that evening. Once at dinner. Once at a hardware store. Buying a crowbar. The receipt was in David’s pocket.”
“A crowbar.” Kevin tented his fingers below his chin. “Why would you need a crowbar?”
She shrugged. “It wasn’t found in the car with us, so I don’t know where it went. And that’s all I know. Four days later I woke up in a hospital. I didn’t remember anything. My memory began to return in the next week, though, memories up until I was fourteen. After that, nothing.”
“Nothing at all. No fragments, no bits.” His gaze met her own.
“Nothing that I could recognize as a memory.” Her stare didn’t waver from him.
He didn’t say anything, as if he was waiting for her to confess, Oh I’m just kidding. Of course I remember details, I’ve just kept them to myself.
“What is the last thing you recall before the accident?”
“Before high school started my dad and I went on a trip. Mom was working, she couldn’t go. Just the two of us, to Disney World. We had a wonderful time.” Her voice was soft. Not defiant. “David was so jealous. He wanted to go, but his parents hate theme parks. I brought him back a book on Walt Disney’s art. He liked art. He liked to draw.”
“I’m glad your last memory is a happy one. So nothing of your freshman year?”
“Not really,” but her gaze slid away from him.
“Forgive my bluntness, Jane. You don’t remember anything that would support this suicide note being legit?”
“No.”
“Have you been told of anything going on in your life that would have made you suicidal at that time?”
“No. I wasn’t in therapy. The school counselors didn’t have a record that I was at risk. I guess at Lakehaven they monitor such things, especially after a parent dies.”
“Were you with your father when he died?”
Jane ran her hand along the arms of the chair again. He’d read the articles about her, he must know what had been reported about her father’s death. But she pretended like she didn’t realize this. “He was at a house he owned over in central Austin, it had been his uncle’s, he’d inherited it, and Dad was going to put it on the market. My uncle kept guns—a rifle and several pistols. Dad was handling one and it went off and killed him.” She picked at a spot on her palm.
“I’m sorry.”
Jane shrugged. “I don’t remember it. I think that’s hard on my mom.”
“And so I guess you can’t tell me how you reacted.”
“It’s in Vasquez’s articles. I went wild for a while. Drinking mostly, but I apparently straightened out.”
“Was there any suggestion your father had committed suicide?”
Jane stared at him. “The police investigated. It was an accident.”
“And then your suicide note. I mean, people must have jumped to an unfortunate conclusion.”
“Like father, like daughter.” She stopped worrying the flesh on her palm and got up and paced over to the window. “My mother was famous—well, Internet-famous—for chronicling her every decision as a parent. She lost her husband and then nearly lost me. I heard people say she hasn’t been the same since.”
Kevin was silent for several seconds. “Let’s go back to the day of the crash. Any communications from David? He hadn’t sent you an e-mail or a text that would suggest what you two would have been doing?”
“No. My mom looked through them all, then I did, trying to jog my memory. We didn’t e-mail, or text, or have lunch together. We weren’t close the way we once were.”
“And I presume his parents checked his e-mails?”
“I presume. His mom would leave no stone unturned if she could prove it was my fault. But they’ve never come forth with any proof like what you’re asking.”
“Do you remember anything about his parents?”
The question surprised her. “That they were nice to me growing up. Until the crash. His mom hates me now. She attacked me this morning at his grave.” She related the story.
“And how did you feel?”
“I wanted to hit her. I’m horrible. She’s a grieving mother. But I just wanted her to leave me alone.”
“Do you want to prove to her you’re innocent, at least of the suicide attempt?”
“I don’t care what she thinks.” She sat back down in the chair, sighing as if bored.
“I wonder if this might be helpful. Could you write out a detailed time line for me of that evening, what is known? You gave me an overview, but I’d like to see actual times—what is known, from witness testimony or the accident investigation? Surely your mother must have papers.”
She felt a hot flash pass through her. “I’ve never wanted to look at that night. I thought the memories would just come…”
“Let us,” he said, “try to impose some order on that hazy night. Perhaps it will tell us. You were not off somewhere being unhappy and suicidal, yes? You were doing something. A crowbar implies activity. Purpose. And this was secret. He told no one, you told no one.”
She stared at his cheap shoes.
“So, we have two notes. The note he passed you, which you do not remember, and the note found at the scene. What did it say?”
“I can’t do this. I can’t. I wish I were dead. I wish we were dead together. Both of us.” It was like a morbid poem she had memorized.