“Connor!” Looking at the cop that’s blocking me, I’m wild with worry. Then I notice my hands and stumble back.
Blood.
They’re covered in blood. My heart drops to the ground.
Whose blood is this?
Oh God. Where are McKenzie and Mary-Anne? Please don’t let this be their blood.
“There were two young girls staying with me,” I manage. “Where are the girls?”
“They’re fine, but as a precaution, they’ve been taken to the hospital to be checked out. Their mother and father have been notified.” The officer, Officer Morrell, as his nametag states, informs me.
Pressing a hand to my forehead, trying to make sense of everything, I yell to no one in particular, “What the hell is going on?”
“You’re convict in-law murdered my husband!” A voice cracked with emotion responds. Whipping around, I find Mrs. Jenson with a pained expression on her face, tears streaming down her wrinkled cheeks. “He murdered my husband,” she moans as she collapses to her knees. I’m speechless. I can’t move even as two policeman move toward her and try to help her to her feet.
I blink a few times, numb with shock and disbelief. Connor wouldn’t . . . he just . . . wouldn’t. Would he?
As they drag Mrs. Jenson away, she howls like a hurt animal begging to be put out of its misery, managing to shout one more time that Connor killed her husband. Officer Morrell approaches me, attempting to question me. Instinct kicks in even though I’m in shock, and I tell him I won’t discuss anything until I speak with my attorney.
I waste no time contacting Jim Burgess, the attorney Blake used for everything and have him rush to the jail immediately to make sure Connor didn’t do or say anything to get himself further in trouble. After arguing with the police some more, at their insistence, I’m taken to the hospital. The next few hours are a blur as the police question me. After a cat scan shows I have a mild concussion, finally, I’m diagnosed with dissociative amnesia; amnesia brought on by stress—that’s the only explanation for it. Why else can’t I remember what happened between me walking across the street to the Jenson’s house and waking up in the back of the ambulance? What the hell happened to my head? I must have seen something? But what? Isn’t that the million dollar question? What happened?
When the police realize their questioning is in vain, they take my clothing and swab my hands to test the blood. I’m told I am a suspect at this time and not to leave town. I called Wendy and Jeff, but they wouldn’t let me speak with the girls until after the police were finished, worried they’d become even more emotional after speaking to me in my frenzied state. I tried not to take it personally when they seemed short with me, telling myself they were just worried, but deep down I felt their anger with me. Something terrible happened while their daughters were in my care. But what exactly happened? That’s what I want to know. Why can’t I remember? How could this have happened in thirty minutes? No matter who I’ve asked, no one seems to have any answers for me. Well . . . there’s one answer. One very definite answer.
Mr. Jenson is dead.