The Girl From the Woods
19
When you are suspected of murder, people treat you differently, and you either learn to live with it or you don't.
People didn't look at me the same after Rachel. My friends stayed away, claiming I'd been acting odd, even before the discovery of her body.
I didn't know Rachel. I told them that when they asked how she ended up on my property.
I didn't know that either.
The detective questioned me again, several months after, wanting to know the same thing.
I couldn't tell him. Not because I was hiding anything, but because I really didn't know the answers to his questions.
So, here I was again, sitting in the same interrogation room, staring at the same photos of Rachel—her bruised, bloody body, torn clothes, and broken bones.
My stomach rolled as the nausea hit. I pushed the file away.
"I can't look at those anymore," I said.
"Do they bother you?" the detective asked.
"Of course they do!" I practically shouted. "They're photos of a dead girl."
"Cut the bullshit," he snapped. "You did this, I know you did. You're a good actor, kid. I'll give you that. You actually look repulsed by your own work."
I stared at him, my voice sharp. "Listen to me, you asshole. I did not hurt this girl. If I did, don't you think you would have found evidence by now? It's been months, but you're no closer to finding the killer. So what does that say about you?"
To my satisfaction, he actually looked like he believed me.
"I'm going to nail you to the wall, son," he answered.
Okay, I guess not.
As he stood and went to leave the room, I stopped him. I hadn't mentioned this any time we'd spoken before. But now it was important. And it mattered. It might even help find the person who did this.
"I saw someone with Rachel, the night before she died. I was at that party, and I overheard them talking. His name is Victor. Ask around about him."
People didn't look at me the same after Rachel. My friends stayed away, claiming I'd been acting odd, even before the discovery of her body.
I didn't know Rachel. I told them that when they asked how she ended up on my property.
I didn't know that either.
The detective questioned me again, several months after, wanting to know the same thing.
I couldn't tell him. Not because I was hiding anything, but because I really didn't know the answers to his questions.
So, here I was again, sitting in the same interrogation room, staring at the same photos of Rachel—her bruised, bloody body, torn clothes, and broken bones.
My stomach rolled as the nausea hit. I pushed the file away.
"I can't look at those anymore," I said.
"Do they bother you?" the detective asked.
"Of course they do!" I practically shouted. "They're photos of a dead girl."
"Cut the bullshit," he snapped. "You did this, I know you did. You're a good actor, kid. I'll give you that. You actually look repulsed by your own work."
I stared at him, my voice sharp. "Listen to me, you asshole. I did not hurt this girl. If I did, don't you think you would have found evidence by now? It's been months, but you're no closer to finding the killer. So what does that say about you?"
To my satisfaction, he actually looked like he believed me.
"I'm going to nail you to the wall, son," he answered.
Okay, I guess not.
As he stood and went to leave the room, I stopped him. I hadn't mentioned this any time we'd spoken before. But now it was important. And it mattered. It might even help find the person who did this.
"I saw someone with Rachel, the night before she died. I was at that party, and I overheard them talking. His name is Victor. Ask around about him."
♠ ♠ ♠
Oh, hello muse. Where have you been?