With Malice (16 page)

I could hear the murmuring sound of people talking inside the room, but I couldn't make out what they were saying. I rolled toward the door of the makeshift interrogation room and paused. All I wanted to do was turn around and wheel out of there as fast as possible, but I knew it wasn't an option. Eventually I was going to have to talk to them. Anna turned her chair so our wheels tapped together. The rehab version of a fist bump.

“I'll wait for you in our room,” Anna said. “When it's over, come on up and we can talk.”

“You didn't need to come down with me,” I said. “I could have found it on my own. I hardly ever get lost anymore, thanks to you, Glinda.” It was a feeble joke, but she smiled.

“I wanted to go to the café anyway.” Anna shrugged like it was no big deal.

I swallowed hard, trying to convince myself that I was brave enough to do this. “'Kay, see you later,” I said.

“Remember what I told you. They can kill you, but they can't eat ya.” This was down-home advice that Anna's family always pulled out when things were tough. I guess it was supposed to make me feel better, but I wasn't sure I was made of the same stuff as her relatives. Anna rolled back a bit but paused, waiting for me to go in. It felt nice, knowing she had my back.

I shouldn't have been this nervous. Evan had prepped me for this meeting for hours over the past couple of days. He'd even had a few of his co-workers come in and role-play with me so I could get a sense of how it might go, but I was still terrified. I'd never talked to cops before, unless you counted when I met with the school safety officer as the student council rep to look at how we might cut down on drinking at prom. When I came into the conference room, everyone stopped talking. My parents were sitting off to the side. My mom appeared ready to vomit. She had this strangled expression. Dad kept clenching his jaw as if he were considering throwing some punches.

The Italian detectives were exactly as I'd pictured them in my head—some casting office at a movie studio could have sent them over. They were both dressed in sleek, fitted suits that looked like they were designer labels, but only one of them had the looks to match. He was younger and had that Abercrombie & Fitch sultry-guy thing going on. The other detective was older, closer to my parents' age, with short buzz-cut hair like he was in the military. He had a spray of angry-looking red pimples across his forehead. I did my best not to stare at them. Making him feel self-conscious about his skin condition wasn't going to get us off on the right foot.

Evan stood and waved me in. There was a moment when it was clear my wheelchair wasn't going to fit into the tiny conference room with all the other chairs that were already around the table, and everyone got up, bustling around to make it work. I tried to look like I wasn't annoyed. It wasn't as if they hadn't all known I still used a chair. I wondered if the Italians had done it deliberately so I would be thrown off before we even started. I'd read enough murder mysteries to know it wasn't impossible.

I was finally pushed up to the table, and Evan slid over a glass of water. We'd rehearsed that I should pause and take a sip anytime I wasn't sure how to answer a question. That would be his cue to help me out. I hoped I wouldn't drink so much water that I'd have to ask for a bathroom break. I didn't want anyone to think a weak bladder was a sign of weak character in general.

The two Italian detectives stared across the table. The older guy looked angry, but the younger one was smiling. Good cop, bad cop. My life was turning into a
Law & Order
episode.

The younger cop looked around the room as if taking roll call, then held out his hand to me. “I am Detective Alban and this is my colleague, Detective Marco.”

I shook Detective Alban's hand, but my hand simply hovered over the table in front of the older detective, Marco. He sat staring at me. I dropped my arm.

“Detective Marco's English is not as good as my own,” Alban said. “I will talk mostly.”

I thought about asking why Marco flew all the way here to talk to me if he wasn't actually capable of speaking, but figured this would go against advice Evan had given me under the heading
Don't allow them to engage you in pointless conversation. Everything you say matters, so say as little as possible
. He'd told me it was fairly unusual that the Italian government had paid for them to come over. He said normally they would request a local detective to take my statement. That they were here meant they were taking things seriously.

Detective Alban pulled out an iPhone and put it in the middle of the table. “I will make a recording if that is okay with all.”

Evan pulled out his phone, a version newer, and placed it next to Alban's. “We'll make our own recording as well.”

The two men looked at each other, and I had the sense this was the legal equivalent of “Who has the biggest dick?” After a pause, Alban gave a stiff nod in agreement. Round one to my lawyer.

Detective Alban listed the date and who was in the room for the recording. The skin on my neck prickled, and I suspected I was breaking out in blotchy hives. Detective Marco seemed to be staring at them, which made it worse. I wanted to explain that I did this anytime I was nervous. At state debate finals, I had to take antihistamines just to keep from exploding at the lectern.

“We have some questions about what happened on April twenty-eighth,” Detective Alban said. “I understand you still do not remember these events?”

I nodded.

Detective Alban made a sad face. “I am so sorry. I need you to speak because of the recording.” He motioned to the table where the two phones stared up at me.

My tongue felt too big for my mouth, and for a split second, I wasn't sure I'd be able to say anything, but finally I pushed it out. “I don't remember.”

“No memories at all?” The detective's face was scrunched up as if he were deeply concerned for my health.

“We have provided you with a medical report from Ms. Charron's treatment team here. The impact of the brain injury on her memory is clearly documented,” Evan said.

“Would it be possible for us to get her full medical records?”

Evan leaned back. “No. I'm sure you can understand that we're not going to just hand over her private medical history. You'll need to request that through the court if you want it.”

“We may request that Miss Charron see experts of our choosing for an independent medical exam.”

Evan spread his hands. “That's your choice.”

I wanted to interrupt and say I saw enough doctors, but I kept my mouth shut.

Detective Alban pulled a worn leather briefcase onto his lap. It had buckles and looked like it was from a World War II movie. I half expected him to pull out spy plans, but instead he slid a photograph across the table to me. It took me a while to figure out what it was supposed to show, and then I realized it was a car,
the
car. I swallowed hard when I saw it. It was so dented and mangled, I didn't know how anyone had survived. I'd seen it online, but somehow in the giant glossy photo, it looked even worse.

“We had the auto inspected.” Detective Alban paused, but when neither Evan nor I said anything, he continued. “We now have the full report. You may be interested to know there was nothing mechanically wrong with the car. No reason for it to go out of control. Can you explain this?”

I wanted to pump my fist in the air. This was one of the questions I'd practiced with Evan and his co-workers. I felt the confidence that comes with knowing the right answer.

“I'm not a mechanic. I can't say how the car was working or not,” I said. “And I don't remember the accident.” Evan had stressed to me not to offer alternative theories, no suggesting that maybe there had been a tiny kitten in the road or a blown tire.

“We've requested access to the car,” Evan said. “For our own inspection.”

Detective Marco sniffed. I sensed he wasn't that impressed with Evan.

“Of course,” Detective Alban said. “We are also happy to give you a copy of the mechanic's report. You will see, there are no doubts the car was fine. Which means that Miss Charron must have driven off the road on purpose.”

I shook my head.

“I thought you said you do not remember this event,” Detective Alban said.

“I don't,” I said.

He spread his hands. “Then it is possible, no?”

“No. It's not possible. I would never—” The word was gone, and I felt a flash of panic. I'd been afraid my aphasia would pop up again. Both detectives leaned forward as if they couldn't wait to hear what I would say. “Hurt,” I finally spat out. “I would never hurt Simone.”

Detective Marco mumbled something in Italian to Alban. “What can you tell us about Niccolo?”

“I have no memory of my time in Italy,” I said.

“But is this your first love?” Detective Alban said.

“I told you, I have no memory of Nico.” I pushed away the flash of kissing someone. I shifted uneasily in my seat as if they could see the racy image in my head.

Detective Alban smiled. “But surely you remember if there have been other loves in your life, or have there been too many?”

I could hear my dad shift in his chair behind me. I sensed I wasn't the only one who picked up the message that I must be some kind of slut who couldn't keep track of all the people I'd been with.

“I don't have a boyfriend,” I said.

“A pretty girl like you.” Detective Alban's eyes sparkled.

“Is that a question, Detective?” Evan said.

Detective Alban fiddled with the papers in his file. He made sure I could see the copy of the photo of me from Halloween in there. Then I saw something else, a phone number next to Nico's name. My heart picked up speed. I used my finger to trace the numbers on my thigh over and over, a way to try to force them into my memory. This was not a time for one of the black holes to open up. Ten digits. I could remember that. I would make myself remember. “We have some screenshots from your Facebook page,” the detective said, breaking my attention.

I nodded. I wasn't sure what he was going to show, but I kept repeating the number in my head over and over.

Detective Alban passed a sheet of paper over to me. He tapped it with his index finger. “Here you say—” He twisted the paper slightly so he could read it. “Revenge may be wicked, but it's natural.”

“It's a quote from
Vanity Fair,
” I said, recognizing it instantly. “I read the book in my English class.”

He pursed his lips. “But why repeat it on your page? Is it, how you say, a motto?”

I felt a wave of frustration. “No, it's just a quote, something I thought sounded—cool.”

“Revenge is cool,” he said. His voice went up on the word
cool.

I wanted to explain that
cool
hadn't even been the word I wanted; it was the one I could think of. I didn't say anything. It wasn't a question. If I'd known I'd be questioned on everything I ever said, I would have censored myself more. Not everything had a deep meaning.

Detective Alban pulled another sheet out. “This is from when you were in Italy.” He laid it down on the table.
Love is like an arrow in the heart. To have it pulled out is to die.
“What is meant by this?”

“I don't know,” I said. I didn't glance over at my parents. Evan had quizzed me for hours on every posting I had on my profile page and every comment I'd made on anyone else's status. I couldn't remember writing them. I'd thought Evan was being paranoid and that the police would never bring it up, but they had. “I don't remember Nico. It's possible I liked him, but I doubt it was that serious. I wouldn't have known him that long.”

Detective Alban nodded. “Do you sleep with people when it isn't that serious?”

“What the hell—” my dad said before my mom clutched his knee. His mouth snapped shut.

I flushed red hot. “I'm a—a—I haven't slept with anyone.”

Detective Alban spread his hands. “I don't mean to offend. It is just that one of the girls on the program”—he looked into his file—“Abigail, said that you asked her for condoms.”

I blinked rapidly. I slept with this guy? I'd never slept with anyone. My temperature shot up several degrees. Alban made it sound like I'd lied, but I hadn't known. And now, in front of my parents and a group of strangers, I found out I had lost my virginity.

“Okay, let's stop here,” Evan said. “We agreed to this meeting because you said you had issues you wished to discuss. But this is nothing more than a fishing expedition. Do you think we don't know you're the ones leaking these pictures and quotes to the press?” He gestured to the file on the table. “You're trying to build some kind of story because you have no case.”

“But we wish to understand the story,” Detective Alban insisted.

Evan leaned forward so both of his palms were on the table. “There is no story. Here are the facts. These girls were friends. They were friends for years. Ms. Charron has no history of violence or mental health issues. There was a tragic accident in which Simone McIvory was killed and my client was seriously injured.”

“How you explain this?” The older detective tossed an item in a plastic bag onto the table, and it made a clanking sound as it hit. My eyes took a moment to focus on it and then I realized it was a knife. I drew back, shocked. There was something all over it. Something I was pretty sure was dried blood. The older detective said something loud in Italian. I couldn't look away from the knife. My breath came low and shallow.

“What the hell is this?” Evan said.

“It was found in the car,” Alban said.

Evan threw his hands up in the air. “So what? It was a rental car. I wouldn't be surprised at anything you found in one of those.”