He leans forward on the edge of my desk chair. “Okay, I want you to think for a second. This is important. Did you see anything suspicious before you entered the park? Any strange cars around, people you didn’t recognize?”
I imagine someone sitting in a car, watching me walk down the trail, and shudder. There are so many important details I could have missed. “I wasn’t really paying attention to cars.”
“What about other people in the park?” His eyes are intense. “Think, Sonia. Was there anyone unusual you might’ve passed on the path? Anything out of the ordinary as you approached the bridge?”
“I—I don’t know. There might’ve been. It was dark.” The scratches in my skin burn, but his questions keep coming.
“There might’ve been, or there was?” His voice rises. “Because if you saw the—”
“Roger,” my mom warns.
He looks at her, then back at me and runs a hand over his face. “I’m sorry.”
I stare at my quaking hands. Then I imagine Gretchen being chased by the same shadowy figure as me—but not getting away. I take as deep a breath as my ribs will allow. I can do this. I’m doing this.
“No, it’s okay.” I pull a pillow into my lap and manage a nod. “I know this is important.”
The sheriff clears his throat and glances through his notes again. When he looks up he’s all protocol once more. “In your statement, you said you were grabbed from behind just before you reached the bridge. You struggled with your attacker, but you never saw a face.”
“Yes.” I fix my eyes on the space between us, where it feels safe.
“Could you tell if they were male or female?”
“Male.” I hesitate. “I think.”
The pen scratches across his notepad, sending a shiver up my spine. I do everything possible to avoid thinking about the next part. The moment hands clamped around my neck and dragged me toward the falls. When I felt the icy spray on my face and realized I was going to die. I close my eyes, fighting the sting of tears. But then the sheriff surprises me with a different question.
“Can you remember which way you ran? How long you were pursued after you got away?”
“I—I’m not sure.” I look at my lap, racking my memory for any useful detail. “It felt like I ran forever, I got so turned around. At some point I made it back to the bridge, and then the diner.” My voice quavers, but I force myself to go on. “I guess if I hadn’t . . .”
A muffled sob issues from the doorway. I open my eyes to see my mother wiping her face and I wish I’d spared her that detail.
“This was very helpful, Sonia, thank you.” The sheriff’s face softens as he pockets his notes.
I exhale. “I feel like I’m no help at all.”
“What you’ve been through, the fact that you’re even able to talk about this is huge.” He leans toward me. “I might send Amir over tomorrow. Maybe the two of you can work out a sketch of the person you saw.”
“But I didn’t see—”
“Sleep on it. You never know.”
I give in, sinking back into my pillows. “Sheriff?”
“Yes?”
“Do you have a list of other suspects?”
His forehead creases. “You leave that part up to me. I don’t want you worrying about it.”
I frown, a heavy feeling building in my gut. “Do you really believe it wasn’t Marcus?”
“Sonia, you know I can’t speculate about stuff like that.”
I tighten my fingers in my lap, but it’s clear he’s set on keeping me in the dark.
“Listen, I’m aware you and Marcus Perez don’t exactly get along—”
“It’s not that.” I fold my arms, though he’s right, partially. Marcus does hate my guts. It would be easier if I felt the same way. “Can you just stop trying to protect me? I was attacked by this person too, don’t I deserve to know who you think it was?”
He rests his elbows on his knees. “I’ll be the first to admit I’m trying to protect you. It is likely that the same person attacked you and Gretchen. And they’re still at large. I promise I’ll do everything in my power to get them secured behind bars, but you’re just going to have to trust me.” He rises, squeezes my mom’s shoulder. “Try to get some sleep, both of you.”
My mom sees him downstairs. When she comes back she lingers in the door, hugging herself. “I’ll ask the school to send your things over tomorrow.”
I look up. “Why would you do that? We still have class.”
“A few days off will do you good,” she says.
“But it’s almost finals.” My mouth goes dry. “I can’t afford to mess up my grades.”
“I don’t see how you can even think about grades right now.”
I straighten, prepared to argue, but think better of it. My mother always says she’s learned more from life than she could in any classroom; that college is a waste of time. But it’s wrong to lace that tired dispute into a night like tonight. “I just can’t lose my scholarship.”