Page 24 of Secrets Along the Shore
“Coerced? The cops don’t do that.”
“Oh really?” Alan challenged.
“I mean?—”
“They want to get someone for the murder, and they always blame the boyfriend. Nine times out of ten, it’s the significant other that does the time.”
I wasn’t sure Alan’s statistics were right. But still. A gnawing feeling chewed at my gut. If Dereck was telling the truth, this wasn’t a crime of passion. But six hours? That seemed like a long interrogation unless they had some evidence that really put a spotlight on Dereck.
Alan and Dereck’s voices had faded. I peered through the crack in the open door. They walked toward dumpsters, cigarettes in hand.
Turning away, I opted not to follow to inquire about installations and crews and the semantics of job site scheduling. Instead, I wandered toward the offices.
Without police present, Dereck had little reason to lie. So if not a jealous or volatile boyfriend, then who? And what motive? And there were still two other missing women. One would have to argue if Dereck wasn’t behind Sophia’s murder, then why would he be guilty of the other disappearances?
Frustrated, confused, and not a little turned around in my head, I hurried back the way I’d come. I wasn’t equipped to handle anyone else’s traumatic story when I couldn’t even remember my own. But as I took quick steps to hustle out of the warehouse, my shoulder brushing boxes on the shelves, I saw Sophia across the warehouse, staring at me.
Go away, I wanted to cry out.
She was merely a figment of my imagination and yet, I couldn’t be at peace.Shecouldn’t be at peace. Not until we knew what had happened.
But why wasIthe one who had to bear that responsibility?
Had to? That was probably my own self-inflicted guilt.
Yes. There it was.
Guilt.
Tears burned my eyes and I sprinted the rest of the way out of the warehouse. I shouldn’t even be here. I shouldn’t have a job scheduling hulking blue collar guys on job sites, or selling a woodstove to atrusting couple who thought I knew what the heck I was talking about! I shouldn’t be arguing with myself. I shouldn’t be mad at myself for not remembering, for blocking out vital elements of my trauma that would save the ones I’d left behind. Orwould havesaved them. I shouldn’t havelived.
And there lay the crux of the matter. The reason Sophia’s death broke down barriers I’d guarded for years now. Here she was. Another young victim. And whether related to my case or not, she was another young woman who should still be alive.
I barely made it outside of the warehouse before I crumpled to the earth. I clapped my hands over my ears but I could still hear them.
The screams.
No! Please. No.
The dank smell of the dark room.
A cold hand that came out of nowhere and grabbed hold of my own, squeezing my fingers in a death grip. Death grip. Yes. If we held on to each other, we would be safe. That was the illusion of the comfort of human touch. Even infants thought in their mother’s arms they were safe. That being held meant being shielded from harm.
I remembered her fingers, clawing my arm as we were ripped apart. The room was so dark. Only figures. Shadows.
She screamed.
I screamed.
She died.
I lived.
Maybe the dice had been rolled and I was simply the lucky one. But there were others. I could hear them. Breathing. In the darkness. Afraid to cry out for fear they’d be next.
All I knew, was that my hand was empty now. No one held it. And I would never be safe. Ever.
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