April Henry - The Girl Who Was Supposed to Die

A source familiar with the case says that authorities are investigating the possibility of a link between the homicide and a teenage girl who may have been the last person to see him alive. The girl is described as having blond hair and wearing jeans, a red sweater, and a man’s brown canvas coat.

Dillow, who had been employed by Newberry Ranch for five years, worked the evening shift alone. “It’s just a big loss,” said Mel Clark, the head of the Newberry Ranch Residents’ Association. “Lloyd was extremely dedicated to his job.”

The police are still investigating. Anyone with information related to the shooting is asked to call Crime Stoppers at 541-555-8588.

Two pairs of eyes swivel to me. It’s hard to speak. The air feels trapped in my lungs. “Officer Dillow can’t be dead.” My voice sounds strangled. “I left him locked up in the back seat of his car. He was perfectly fine.” I think of how his face paled when I told him about my missing fingernails, how he promised to listen to me even when I was pointing a gun at him. As terrible as it is to think of Brenner’s death, I can sort of deal with it because it was an accident and I didn’t have a choice. He was going to kill me. But Officer Dillow—all he wanted to do was help me. He just wanted to do what was right.

“You said your memory’s gone,” James says calmly. “What if you just don’t remember what you did to him?”

“No! I remember everything after I woke up on the floor of that cabin. It’s before the cabin that I don’t remember. Not after.”

But how do I know that’s true? Maybe my memory still has holes in it. Maybe the reason I don’t remember things is because they’re bad things. I mean, I don’t remember having my fingernails pulled out, and that would obviously be a terrible memory. Maybe I don’t remember shooting Officer Dillow because that would be a terrible memory, too.

But with Officer Dillow, I remember everything else that happened—driving to Newberry Ranch, talking to him, the phone call he answered, locking him in the car, driving away, meeting Ty. If I shot him, then the shooting part is the only thing I don’t remember. So it’s not the same.

Could my mind be playing a different trick on me? Giving me false memories instead of no memory at all? But it’s too hard to believe I’m remembering an alternate version of events.

“Why would I shoot him?” I look at Ty as if he really has the answers.

“So you wouldn’t have to go back to the mental hospital.” He runs his hand through his hair so it stands up like a rooster’s comb. “Who else would have a reason for shooting him?”

“Well, someone had a reason for trying to kill me, and I have no idea what that was. And the only reason to believe I was in a mental hospital was that whoever called Officer Dillow said that.” I’m thinking out loud now. “And they said they were coming to get me. So they must be the ones who did it. Maybe he asked too many questions. So they killed him. And if whoever called about me killed him, it proves that their story isn’t true. They must have done it to shut him up.” Something occurs to me and I let out a little moan. “Oh.”

“What’s wrong?” Ty asks.

“I took his gun. He couldn’t even defend himself. I took his gun, and now he’s dead.”

“You couldn’t have known that was going to happen.” Ty touches my shoulder.

“Too bad all your fingers weren’t bandaged,” James says. “Or you weren’t wearing gloves.”

We both turn to look at him.

“Why?” I ask.

“Because your fingerprints have got to be all over that guy’s security car.”

The few facts I know shift and fall into a different pattern, like twisting a kaleidoscope. “Maybe they didn’t kill Officer Dillow for asking questions. Or maybe that wasn’t the only reason. Maybe they did it so that they could blame me. I can’t go to the cops now. Why would they ever believe me? After all, I really was there and I even took his gun.”

“Okay,” James says. “Back up a little. So you were with this Dillow, and he got a call from someone claiming to work at Sagebrush and saying you were a patient there.”

“That’s right.” I hope he’s not going to try to start proving or disproving my mental health.

“But how did they know you were there?”

“Maybe they just started calling all the places nearby where they thought I might go for help.” I have the nagging feeling I’m overlooking something.

Ty’s eyes go wide. “Then how did they know you were at the mall?”

In my panic last night, I hadn’t thought about that. Now the three of us think of the answer at the same time.

“The phone!” I grab Brenner’s phone and turn it off. Is that enough? I take out the battery and slip it in one pocket and the phone in the other.

James gets up and goes to the window that looks out over the parking lot. He presses his face up to a gap between the blinds. “Oh crap.”

My heart leaps in my chest. “What?”

“Guys in suits. It looks like they’re going door to door.”

“How many?” Ty asks.

I’m too scared to even speak. They’ll find me, and when they do, they’re going to kill me.

“Two,” James says, then turns his head from side to side. “No, make that three.”

“Is there a back door to this apartment?” I already know the answer before Ty shakes his head.

James steps back. “They’re knocking on the neighbor’s door.”

We can hear the raps through the thin walls, then his neighbor’s voice. I’m glad we came here late at night, when nobody was outside. When I might have slipped in unnoticed.

But I guess that doesn’t matter now. Because in the next couple of minutes someone is going to knock on this door. I look around for a place I can conceal myself. But this place is so small, I already know the answer.

There is no place to hide.

I run to the back of the apartment and peek through the vinyl blinds. Are men out there, too? The window is mostly covered by a bush, but past that all I can see are tree trunks, bark dust, and more bushes. The ground rises up, so I can’t see very far. But no men in suits.

My head filled with panicked thoughts of escape, I reach through the slats and thumb the catch shaped like a half-moon. Then I start to slide the window up. Halfway up, it sticks. And worse than that, I see the fine black mesh of a screen behind it. But I can’t see any clips holding it in place or a way to slide it out of the way. The only way to go out it would be to cut it first. And we don’t have time.

I hear a soft sound repeated over and over and realize it’s me. Whimpering.

There’s a knock on the door. James gasps and turns toward us. Ty grabs my wrist. His lips are pulled back from his teeth. The three of us stare at each other wordlessly, then Ty pulls me down the hall toward his room.

“Just a second,” James calls out. “I’m coming.”

In his room, Ty pushes me toward the closet. I lean down, snatch my coat, then step through the closet door. My ankle turns as I step on one of his shoes. Ty crowds in next to me.

“Who is it?” James calls out.

Softly, softly Ty closes the door. It makes a snicking sound when it catches. His breathing is loud and fast. At least I think it’s his. We’re crouched underneath the closet rod, facing each other, trapped in this tiny space, breathing the same air, our hearts knocking on our chests.

I’m still clutching the coat. I run my hand down the fabric, looking for the pocket. Looking for the gun.

The murmur of voices is too vague for me to make out individual words. Just a man’s low voice, and James’s, pitched higher, answering. His voice swoops up and down. He sounds more gay than before. I wonder if he’s doing it deliberately—to make them think there would be no reason for him to give a girl shelter.