“I hope they find who’s responsible.”
“Someone is in custody.”
“Do we know who?” Ali asks.
“A person of interest.”
“The most recent victim in that town is none other than Jill Thorne, the visual-effects researcher onUnder the Surfaceand other acclaimed crime dramas.”
“Oh no.”
Chapter
Forty-One
In a strange and secure space that I had forgotten existed, I allow myself to be taken care of, to relish the security of the doctors and nurses, and of my mother. It’s as if I’m a child again. It had been a long time since I experienced that sense of being cared for. Nevertheless, I fall into the routine without question or fight.
My body needs to heal. That’s what I’ve been told.
My injuries were worse than Julie’s. Instead of gardening tools, I was sexually assaulted with scissors. Thankfully, I have no memory of it happening, nothing after Keith’s appearance in the cottage. The hospital therapist says that with time I may remember more. For now, she says my mind, or the GHB they found in my system, has my horrific memories blocked.
Though most of the liquid had been discarded, the drug was found in trace amounts in my iced-tea glass. I remember pouring it for my dinner and forgoing it for wine. I answer all the questions first fromDeputy Ford, and then from Sheriff Manes and the Michigan State Police, though I know I’m no help.
My memories are all disconnected, unrelated pieces of film spliced together—a movie not meant for viewing.
They ask to see my belongings, particularly my laptop and phone.
I’m not sure if I was supposed to survive. The woman Theo mentioned in Marquette didn’t. Marty didn’t. Julie did. However, if survival was a possibility, it seems my attacker’s goal was to ensure that I would never again carry a child.
The jury is still out on that, though. Dr. Chaudhry promised that my surgery was successful and there is hope. Regardless, with the damage to my cervix, any pregnancies would be high risk, but there is always adoption.
I am well aware.
The story I’ve been told was that when I didn’t answer Olivia’s call, she called our father.
He rushed out to the cottages and found me bleeding and lying partially in the water, on the shore of Stark Lake. I was alone. No one else was found on the Harrisons’ property.
I tell the police everything I recall as the pieces reconnect.
After Liv left, I locked the back door. The two of us had been on the front porch, drinking wine. Liv confirmed my account. Then, I recall that Keith Gilbert entered through the front door of the cottage, and we discussed the cases as we had been doing for days. Hesaid he came to warn me about something, but the end of our conversation is foggy.
I admit things felt off, but I can’t make myself accuse him of my attack.
As a matter of fact, I’m concerned about him. “What about Keith? Is he all right?” I continue to ask.
For days on end, I receive no information regarding Craig’s brother. At first, the subject of Keith seems to be off-limits with anyone. Whenever I mention him, Mom and Liv quickly change the subject. And then, I learn an arrest was made and friends and family began to fill in the blanks.
The morning after my attack, Keith Gilbert was located sleeping in his truck in the parking lot at Brooks Park, outside Blue Gil. That would mean he would have passed my father on the road, yet my father doesn’t recall any traffic. He said his mind wasn’t on other cars but getting to me.
They claim Keith was intoxicated—blackout drunk.
I know he doesn’t drink to excess.
Forensics determined that there was trace evidence on his shirt, blue jeans, and boots. It’s my blood. His fingerprints were also found and identified in cottage two.
I told the police he had been there, so his prints were to be expected. I refuse to confirm that he hurt me.
I don’t need to.
