Behind Every Lie(7)

“No. You need to rest. You can’t even remember last night! You need time for your memories to piece together.”

I snatched my hand away. “I need to find out what happened to my mom!”

Liam looked surprised, then hurt. “Eva—”

“Please.…” I cut him off, my voice cracking.

Indecision played out across his face. Finally he relented, moving to sit on a chair against the wall. But his body remained coiled tight as he watched the detective.

Detective Jackson shifted his weight and addressed me. “Did your mom ever tell you she was in danger in any way?”

I shook my head, flinching as starbursts of pain exploded inside my skull. My heartbeat pounded in my damaged ear. “No, never.”

“When was the last time you spoke?”

“Sunday.”

“Yesterday?”

“Yes. We had dinner. We were celebrating.”

He nodded, appearing attentive, focused, with none of the indifference I remembered from the last time I spoke to the police. But his presence sucked the air from the room, making me feel claustrophobic and tense. I didn’t trust him.

“I saw she won the Seattle Medal of Courage last month.”

“Yes, that’s why we were celebrating.”

“She saved that little girl’s life. What was she, three? She’d fallen on the light rail tracks in Pioneer Square. Your mom climbed onto the tracks when the train was approaching and grabbed her.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know of anyone who had a grudge against her?”

“A grudge?”

“Yes. Any enemies, bad blood, people who were angry with her? Family feuds, maybe?”

Why is he asking me that?

I swallowed hard. “No. I don’t think so.”

“It’s odd that someone would be murdered so soon after being in the public eye.” Click, click.

“Is it?”

“Don’t you think?” He let the question sit between us for a moment. “What time was your dinner?”

“Our reservation was for five p.m.”

“And what about after? Where did you go?”

I hesitated, trying to remember. “I got the ferry home to Whidbey Island. Why are you asking me these things?”

He ignored my question. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

I closed my eyes, allowing myself to shuttle back, to track the path of last night. Images flitted through my mind, clicking into place. “I was in the garage. I’d fired a set of bowls in the kiln.”

I looked at Liam for confirmation. He nodded, his face gray with worry.

“The timer went off.…” The sharp ring of earthenware hitting concrete rang out in my mind. My eyes flew open. “I took the pieces out of the kiln, but I tripped and dropped the tray and they smashed on the floor. I was cleaning it up when Liam came in. He told me he was going to make something to eat.”

I paused, reaching for the memory, but that was where it stopped. I tried to swallow past a dusty throat. “I can’t remember anything else.”

“So you remember other things, earlier in the day, for instance, just not past when the pottery broke?”

“No. Nothing,” I whispered.

Detective Jackson looked doubtful. My spit went thick in my mouth. He didn’t believe me.

“I want to remember!” I exclaimed, my voice too loud.

Liam looked alarmed by my outburst. What was wrong with me? But it was true. I wanted to remember, but the harder I tried to hold on to my memories, the further they sank beneath the waters of my subconscious.

“Eva, you shouldn’t be talking right now.” Liam came and stood by me. “Remember what the doctor said. You need to rest.”

Detective Jackson looked up from jotting notes and addressed Liam. “Do you know what time Eva came back from dinner, Mr. Sullivan?”

“Maybe eight or so.”

“And what time did she leave in the night?”

Liam’s jaw worked and he shook his head. “I’m sorry, I sleep like the—” His eyes darted to mine, apologizing for being tactless. Once Liam was asleep, there was no waking him. He was an early-to-bed, early-to-rise kind of guy, the good angel on my shoulder. He’d convinced me to exercise more, give up gluten, start an IRA, keep my calendar organized. He’d been a good influence on my more freewheeling ways.

“What’d you do after you ate?”

“Eva had a migraine, so I got her meds for her and she went to bed. I worked for a few hours and joined her. The next thing I knew, you guys were calling.”

Jackson looked at me again, his expression guarded. I could see shades of something creeping into his face.

“How’d you hurt your hand?” he asked.

I looked down. A thick white bandage was taped to the inside of my left palm. Something flashed in my mind, not a memory exactly, but something more ethereal, a sensation.

In my mind I see a knife. I recognize it. It’s one of the old-fashioned wooden-handled boning knives my mom keeps in her kitchen. It’s covered in blood.

My skin prickled with sweat, first hot, then cold. I inhaled sharply.

“I cut it,” I said. “Yesterday, when I was picking up the pottery.”

Detective Jackson looked at me for a long moment. Liam stepped in front of me, blocking the detective’s gaze with his body.