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I know you are afraid, but I knew your mother.
Call this number, I can help.
It’s a safe burner phone.
I’d ignored every text.
For two days, Martin had been helping me walk around the room, or counting as I stretched my muscles.
For two days, I’d learned a lot about Martin. He was a son to a happily married couple. He had a smart and caring younger brother named Jack, who was ten. I’d asked him if his family knew where he was. He’d said he didn’t want to involve them.
The night he’d found me, he was on his way home from a Christmas party one of his friends hosted. He stopped at the red light as the taillights of a SUV drove off from the curb. He’d said something about it screamed for him to turn toward the alley as he drove by. My black hair had stood out from the pristine snow. Martin had called the cops and turned his car around, finding me in a pool of blood.
This spoke a lot about him. He didn’t measure the danger he could be in, he just wanted to save me.
“I can’t hold them from coming in any longer,” Martin said as he walked inside the room with a coffee cup in his hands. His pants hung low on his hips, and his expensive grey sweater stretched around his broad shoulders. He closed the door behind him and looked up to see me curled on the bed, awakening from a nap. “Sorry,” he whispered.
“It’s all right,” I replied to both comments. I’d known this would happen. I was surprised we’d been able to keep the cops from interviewing me for this long. Each time, Martin had made an excuse for me, and others I would close my eyes when I heard their voices outside, hoping that if they stepped inside and saw me asleep, they wouldn’t come inside. So far it’d worked, and as much as I dreaded speaking to them, it was something that had to be done.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, concerned while he looked over my body as I sat up.
“Sore?” I shrugged, “Although I did make it to the bathroom and back without any dizzy spells or nausea.”
“That’s great!” he replied, relieved, and we both turned when we heard two loud knocks on the door. Martin looked back at me and his head nodded toward the entrance in question. I nodded. His steps were silent, and the knob turned loudly as he pulled the door open.
An officer stepped inside. The same one whose eyes met mine days before. He looked young, with a freshly shaven face, and his full lips widened with a smile.
I’ve never been afraid of the law, but there was something about him that seemed wrong, forced, like his smile. He had a cap over his head but removed it as he walked deeper into the room, showing his short dark hair.
“Ms. Cohen, I’m glad to see you doing well. I’m Officer Moss,” he explained, turning toward his partner and motioning with his hand. “This is Officer Lewis. We are here to ask you some questions.” Officer Lewis was not the same officer who had stood by my door and talked to him days before. Officer Lewis stood quietly behind him as they reached the foot of my bed.
Confused by their titles, I wanted to ask if a detective should be here, but I kept my questions to myself.
“If you could please wait outside, we’ll be quick.” Officer Moss’s attention was directed a few steps away from where Martin stood.
Martin’s eyes slid to mine, but I didn’t want him more involved than he already was. And even with every sense of my body awakened with panic, I said, “It’s fine, babe. Do you mind getting me a drink? Something with caffeine, maybe?”
“Of course, I’ll double check with the nurses if you are cleared to have caffeine. I’ll be right back,” he promised. Martin gave the officer a respectful nod before turning one last time as he stepped outside of the room, leaving me alone with two officers who’d never shown their badges when introducing themselves.
“I’m sure this has been very difficult for your fiancé. How long have you both been together?” Moss asked.
“Time with him has been a blur.” I grinned. “Two years, in a couple of months.”
“Well, congratulations to you both.” He looked down to my clasped hands, and asked, “Was your ring stolen that night?”
“Ring?”
His brow rose, and he nodded toward my hands. I looked down, realizing my slip up.
“Oh, sorry. I’m not sure, maybe it was. I haven’t even noticed I had it missing.” I could feel both of their eyes reading me, my body language, my words. “I’m sorry, I just don’t remember that night. The doctors believe it’s dissociative amnesia due to the traumatic events.”
“How lucky,” Officer Lewis spoke up. His voice was calm, but it was the tone. The sharp dig of not believing my words.
“I really am, the last thing I want is to remember anything of that night, and if my body believes it should stay buried, so do I,” I replied.
“Well, is there anything at all from that night? Where were you coming from? How did you end up there? The faces of who did this to you, small details?”
“No, nothing at all. I’m sorry, I wish I had more, but I also don’t want to find the answers.”
