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Then, the officers disappear inside.
It’s another half an hour before they arrive on our front step. To my dismay and utter confusion, I don’t see them leading the man out in handcuffs or a stretcher being wheeled out to the ambulance.
When a knock sounds on the door, we exchange worried glances, doing the customary thing you do when a food delivery arrives and waiting several seconds to pretend as if you aren’t standing just inside the door awaiting their arrival.
It’s Memphis who pulls open the door. Austin stays near the back of the group. “Officers.”
Two officers stand in front of us: a tall, thin man with a bald head and a shorter man with brown, buzz-cut hair and a smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks. It’s the one with freckles who speaks first. “I’m looking for Lena Ortega.”
“That’s me.” My sea of friends parts, allowing me to step forward.
“You placed the 9-1-1 call regarding a situation at your neighbor’s house?”
I nod.
“Okay. I’m Officer Washington. This is Officer Montgomery. May we come inside?”
We step back and allow the officers into the foyer. Once inside, they both scan the room, and Officer Montgomery lets out a whistle. “This is a nice place you have here.”
“We’re just renting it for the weekend,” Mara volunteers. “We aren’t from here.”
“I see. What brought you to town?” Officer Washington asks.
“Our friend, Ethan, rented the place as a little getaway,” I tell them.
“Which one of you is Ethan?” he asks, pointing to the three men, then, somewhat hesitantly, toward the rest of us.
“He’s not here. He had something come up at the last minute.”
“Okay.” He clicks his tongue and looks at his partner. “So, Ms. Ortega, can you describe to me in detail what you saw tonight through your neighbor’s window?”
I replay the events of the night for him—the scream and seeing the woman covered in blood.
“And did anyone else see this? Anyone else that can corroborate your story?” I don’t like the way he asks this, and I know without him saying it that he doubts my story. Perhaps he suspects me of killing her. He looks up at the rest of the group again. Everyone around me shakes their heads slowly. “Alright, kids, how much have you all had to drink tonight?”
“A few drinks,” I answer defensively.
“Lena has had less than anyone,” Memphis says, stepping closer to me. “She’s not drunk. She knows what she saw.”
“Well, maybe so, but we just checked out the entire house next door, and there is no sign of struggle. Definitely no sign of a murder. No blood, nothing is broken or damaged. It’s spotless.”
“What?” My blood runs cold. “That’s impossible. No. I know what I saw. He killed her. She was on the ground, drenched in blood. She was dying!”
“Maybe there was a glare on the window,” the officer offers, his tone snarky and demeaning. “Maybe it was a trick of the light. Maybe you had too much to drink. Low blood sugar. I’m not totally sure, but I can promise you, Ms. Ortega, whatever you think you saw, you were mistaken.” He sighs and claps his hands together. “We’re working on contacting the owners right now to explain the door we had to break into, but we’re having no luck. I don’t suppose you have a way to get in touch with them?”
“What? No,” I say. “Why would we?”
“Have you had any contact with them since you arrived?” Officer Montgomery asks.
“No. We’ve seen them in passing a few times,” I say. “I have, I mean. And Memphis.” I point to him.
“We saw them earlier today, yeah,” he confirms. “But only briefly, like she said.”
“Mmkay, well”—he pulls a business card from his breast pocket and hands it to Memphis—“if you guys think of anything, give us a call, okay? We’re going to have officers posted up outside to keep an eye out for anything suspicious until we can get ahold of the owners, but we shouldn’t need anything else from you all right now. When do you leave town?”
“Sunday,” I say.
“Okay. Be sure to stick around until then in case we have more questions. For now, just…lock your doors and stay inside for the night.”
