Remembering That Night. Stephanie Doyle

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СКАЧАТЬ gave him a severe look. “You want to wait outside?”

      “I’m bored.”

      “Play a game on your phone. I’m working.”

      “Fine. I’ll stay here and be quiet. But no more than an hour. You need to be in and out. You follow?”

      “Yes, Mom.” Chuck was like a mother hen. And he’d brought him along for exactly that reason. Despite the fact that his roommate was younger than him by seven years, he had a way of grounding Greg that was beneficial to Greg’s continued gambling sobriety. He was almost like a sponsor, except as far as Greg knew, the only thing Chuck had ever been addicted to was hitting on women.

      “You want me to talk to her and tell you if she’s lying.”

      “It’s a start. I don’t really have any grounds to hold her on. She wasn’t carrying a weapon. There is no crime that we know of, except someone is walking around without a lot of blood. For all we know that might be a deer she hit with her car. If you tell me she’s lying, I’m going to come up with something to hold her for at least another twenty-four hours. Otherwise I don’t know what I’m going to do with her.”

      “The hospital would be a good start.”

      “But she’s not hurt.”

      “Sheriff, if her brain is not working, she’s hurt.”

      He seemed to consider that. “True. Man, you don’t think this is one of those bumps to the head that caused this?”

      “Since bumps to the head that leave the victim this physically functional rarely cause memory loss, I’m going to say no.”

      “Maybe we should hit her on the head again and see if her memory comes back. You know like...what was that show? Was that The Brady Bunch?” Chuck asked.

      “Gilligan’s Island,” Greg corrected. “And that idea is as ridiculous now as it was on the show. But thank you for your insightfulness.”

      “Dude, she’s got amnesia. That’s totally cray-cray.”

      “Chuck. You’re almost thirty. It’s time you stop talking like a teenager. It’s only crazy if she’s telling the truth. Which she most likely isn’t. Sheriff, I don’t know how much you know about memory loss...”

      “Nothing. Which is why I called you here.”

      “It’s highly unlikely. True memory loss like you’re describing is usually associated with a traumatic brain injury. As I said, if she’d suffered such an injury it’s unlikely she’d be upright and walking along a highway. Hysterical amnesia, which could be caused by a traumatic event, is most likely what she’s trying to emulate. However, in most cases this form of amnesia is temporary and only affects one’s memory of a particular period surrounding the traumatic event and not a person’s whole life. Like a rape victim who forgets the attack, or a child who suppresses abuse.”

      “You think she’s faking it?”

      “Until I talk to her I can’t be sure of course, but my guess is most likely. Which, if she’s covered in blood, means it’s a good bet she’s hiding a violent crime and you should consider holding her.”

      “Hiding a crime by walking down a highway on a Sunday morning in a bloody dress? That’s not exactly covert.”

      “She could already be strategizing a defense.”

      “Dude, you are so cynical,” Chuck noted. “Sheriff, please understand my friend here doesn’t believe anyone, ever.”

      Greg considered the veracity of that statement. Chuck wasn’t exactly wrong. “Only because I know they are lying. Okay, let me talk to her. We’ll see how good of a show she can put on for me.”

      “Will it matter?” the sheriff wondered.

      Greg shook his head. “Nope. Pathological liar or a great actress. None of it will fool me.”

      * * *

      THE DOOR OPENED AND SHE looked up. Another face. A man, a tall man with a kind face and dark curly hair that was too long and a bit ruffled. He wasn’t wearing a uniform.

      “Who are you?”

      “My name is Greg Chalmers and I would like to talk to you, if that’s okay.”

      No, it wasn’t okay. He was going to ask her questions. Questions she didn’t know the answer to. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe. She knew slow deep breathing was supposed to help. It was supposed to calm her.

      She didn’t know how she knew it. She just did.

      He sat down, or more accurately folded himself into the chair across the table. She could see that his smile, while gentle, was wholly insincere. She didn’t blame him for that. She was as skeptical as he was. This wasn’t happening to her. This wasn’t possible.

      She couldn’t even look down at herself because the bloodstains were still there and they were starting to make her nauseous. They’d given her a washcloth to clean her hands and her face, but the smell was still there. Also that hint of metallic flavor on her tongue as if some had gotten in her mouth. No matter how many glasses of water she consumed, it was still here.

      Maybe that was what she was. A vampire. A hysterical idea, except it wasn’t any crazier than what she actually was. A woman with no memory.

      “Don’t,” she muttered before he could start. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

      “I want to ask you some questions.”

      “I know. I know this is a police station. I know this is blood on my dress. I know this. I don’t...I can’t...It’s like...I can’t even explain it.”

      “What’s the first thing you remember?”

      She closed her eyes. “The sound of the siren. I heard a siren and I thought to move out of the way. Then I realized I wasn’t in a car. I was walking. I stopped and the officer got out of his car and approached me.”

      “He asked you for identification.”

      “I didn’t have my purse.”

      “Normally you do, though?”

      “Of course. I carry a purse. I can’t ever find my keys in it. It’s big. I have a big purse and the keys are always at the bottom. I know that. I know that’s true.”

      She couldn’t see the purse in her head. She could only recall the sensation of digging in it with her hands. The jingling sound of keys. She struggled to latch on to that. Willed herself to see something, any picture in her mind of her purse or her wallet and where they might be. But there was nothing. Just this small room and this man with the eyes that didn’t match his face. They were brown, but they weren’t nice. Not like his smile or his casual attire or the way his body relaxed into the chair. It all suggested he was a laid-back person. A nice guy.

      But his eyes weren’t nice. They were...cold.

      She started СКАЧАТЬ