Torrin would have been here if I’d asked, but I didn’t ask. I couldn’t ask. Not with everything I’ve already done to him. After the article in the newspaper a few days ago, I’ve tried to build a little distance between us. I don’t want to do that—we’ve had ten years of “distance”—but I have to. It’s what’s best for him.
I know he was confused when I said I was too tired to go out the other day or when I wouldn’t come to the phone when Mom told me he was on the line, but confusion can fade—a ruined reputation can’t.
Mom set up the farm table in the kitchen with mugs and a coffee pot. She even baked cookies and lit a candle like she was trying to make the interview a little easier on me. I appreciate her efforts even though I know the only way the interview will be easier on me is if it never happens.
I know the detectives are here when the noise from outside rumbles to a roar. The damn vampires do the same thing when the delivery driver shows up. After my display in the front yard, they’ve gotten a taste for blood that won’t be satisfied until they’ve drained me of every last drop.
I don’t feel far away from that last drop.
Dad greets them at the door, and I hear footsteps echo closer. I’ve taken the seat at the table closest to the door because I want to be able to escape if I need to. I need to know I’m not trapped.
I’ve got on an oversized cowl-neck sweater, even though it’s summer, because of the scar. I caught a glimpse of one of the photos taken that day on the lawn, and it made my scar look different than what I saw in the mirror.
I didn’t know how large and ugly it was until I saw it in a photo.
I asked Mom to pick up a few tops that would cover it, and she did. She picked up a few colorful scarves too.
“Miss Childs, good to meet you,” a woman in a charcoal suit says as she and who I guess is her partner approaches.
Dad lingers in the doorway for a moment before leaving with a sigh.
“I’m Detective Reyes, and this is Detective Burnside. Thank you for taking the time to talk with us.” She holds out her hand for me to shake, then something flickers on her face.
She’s about to lower her hand when I grab it. I shake it gently. Even though touching others has gotten easier, it still burns a little. Kind of like an arm waking up after sleeping on it all night.
“I’m sorry it took me so long to do this.” I reach for the pot of coffee and pour some into all of our cups. Mom left cream and sugar out, but none of us take any. “Thanks for your patience.”
Detective Reyes is clearly taking the lead in the interview since, other than smiling at me and sliding into a chair across from me, Burnside hasn’t said a thing. I wonder if that’s because the department thought putting a female on the case would make it easier on the victim. I wonder if everyone sees me as being so damaged I won’t trust another man again.
Maybe they’re right. I don’t know.
Burnside pulls a recorder out of his jacket and sets it on the table. I stare at the thing I’m about to spill my soul out to, and I wonder if when I’m done, I’ll feel better or worse. I think I know.
“First off, how are you doing?” Reyes takes the lead with the questions as I’d guessed she would. Burnside’s probably just here as a formality.
“I’m okay,” I say on autopilot. My expression even knows the way to form so I seem convincing. “Each day gets a little easier.”
When Reyes nods at me, I get the impression she knows my secret though. She knows, but she doesn’t say anything.
“We’d like to ask you some questions. I realize some of them might be uncomfortable for you, so just take as much time as you need, okay? We cleared our schedules for the rest of the day, so we’ve got nowhere to rush off to. Take as long as you need.”
The thought of spending the rest of the day with these detectives, answering questions about those ten years, makes the room sway. I have to grip the edge of my chair to stay in it. I take a breath and nod. I’m not ready, but that doesn’t seem to matter to anyone anymore.
“The night you were taken, how did Jackson get you into his van?” Reyes folds her hands on the table and waits.
No one’s taken a drink of his or her coffee. No one’s sneaked a cookie from the plate in the middle of the table.
“He said he was lost. Had a map and was trying to find Driscoll Street.” I swallow and try to remember without reliving the scene. “When I got close enough, he injected me with something. I don’t know what, but it made me foggy right away, and then my body kind of gave out, and after that . . . I don’t know how long I was blacked out.”
“When you woke up, where were you?”
I try to figure out how to keep my voice as emotionless as Reyes’s. “In a dark closet. I didn’t know it was a closet at first, or that it was inside his house, but that’s where I woke up. I don’t know if it was hours or days later. I’m guessing days.”
The essence of the panic I awoke with floats up from the place where I’ve tried to bury it. My breaths quicken.
“And how long did he keep you in the closet?”
“I don’t know.”
“What would you guess?” Reyes presses.
I want to tell her what dark like that does to a person. How direction and time and everything are lost and totally meaningless. “I don’t know.”