Don't Look Back(69)

“I don’t want her going in there alone,” Mom said, surprising me. “I will go—”

“No.” Dad’s shoulders squared. “Stay here. I will handle this.”

“But why do I have to go there?” I asked.

Again, he tried to smile. “Because that’s how they do things by the book, honey. It’s better if we seem as if we have nothing to hide.”

“We don’t have anything to hide.” Before, when Ramirez had been here, my father hadn’t been the least bit willing to discuss anything with the detective. Something had changed.

The interrogation room was nothing like what I’d seen on all the television shows. There wasn’t a one-way glass mirror, just a really small room with four walls devoid of any decorations and a table with three chairs.

Thomas Lincoln, lawyer extraordinaire, sat beside Detective Ramirez and me. He studied us from across the table. There was a notepad in front of him and a pen he kept twitching in his hand. I couldn’t stop staring at it. In front of my lawyer was the warrant for the search that was taking place right now. Cops were combing the house, messing with my mom’s fine china.

She was probably stroking out right now.

I knew I was close to doing the same, especially when Dad stayed outside the room. He was allowed in, but Lincoln strongly advised against it.

All I could think about were those notes, but they were in my bag, which was with me. How in the world could I explain them if they decided to search that? Oh yeah, I have no idea who’s leaving these notes, but they’re weird, right? Yeah, not good.

“Are you going to read Samantha her rights?” Lincoln asked, leaning back in his chair.

Ramirez tapped the pen off the pan. “I only have a few questions, and unless Miss Franco admits to anything, I don’t see the need for that.”

Hope sparked in my chest.

“Oh, I see. You just wanted her out of the house so it could be searched,” Lincoln said. “Then, if you find something, she’s already here.”

My hope crashed and burned a fiery death.

The detective ignored that, turning his dark, tired eyes on me. I doubted they had a lot of teenage murder suspects around here. It had to be getting to him. “Before I get to some questions that I have, has there been anything that you’ve remembered or discovered since the last time we talked?”

Telling Ramirez that my friends and ex-boyfriend were asshats probably wasn’t what he was looking for. “Nothing,” I said, telling only a half lie. Anything that I’d remembered wasn’t concrete and hardly made any sense. “But I’ve been trying. I’ve gone to Cassie’s house and—”

Lincoln touched my arm. “Samantha, you don’t have to tell him that.”

I sat back and folded my arms.

Ramirez glanced at the lawyer, his nostrils flaring as if he smelled something bad. “Miss Franco, you can finish.”

“I suggest you don’t,” Lincoln said.

Confused, I glanced between the two men. “It’s not a big deal. I went to Cassie’s house once and I even went to the lake and the cliff.” Lincoln stiffened beside me, but seriously, I hadn’t done anything wrong by going to those places. “I was hoping they’d spark some kind of memory, but they didn’t.”

“Why did you think they would?” Ramirez asked.

“My guidance counselor told me I should surround myself with familiar things, but it hasn’t been working.”

“Interesting,” he murmured. “Did you go there alone?”

I locked up. “I went to the lake by myself.”

“And that’s when you had the car accident?” When I nodded, he scribbled something down. “And the other times? Were you alone?”

The need to lie, to protect Carson seemed irrational, but I didn’t want to bring his name up. However, Cassie’s grandfather had been there. “My friend went with me to Cassie’s house and back to the cliff.”

“And who was that?”

I chewed on my nail. “Carson Ortiz.”

He nodded, and I couldn’t figure out what that meant. “Anything else you’d like to tell me?”

I glanced at Lincoln, who looked as if he wanted to duct tape my mouth shut. “No.”

“Okay.” Ramirez’s smile lacked warmth. “There are a couple of things I wanted to know and get your opinion on, and then once my officers get back, you’ll be free to go home, all right?”

Stomach full of nerves, I nodded.

“We got the autopsy report back from the state coroner’s office on Cassie.” He noted my shudder and continued. “The toxicology report showed that she was taking antidepressants and had phentermine in her system.”

“Phentermine?” I asked.

“Diet pills,” Lincoln explained, readjusting the button clasped over his potbelly. “Besides the fact that most teenagers don’t know that term, my client is suffering from dissociative amnesia, as you’re well aware of. I’m not sure what you’re getting at here.”

“I understand that, but I was hoping that maybe some of this rings a bell for her,” Ramirez answered, and something about his tone said he wasn’t entirely convinced about my amnesia. I was right. “I’ve been doing some checking in on this... this disorder. It appears that people can actually fake it—”