April Henry - The Girl Who Was Supposed to Die

Depending on whom you believe.

So, do I believe what this Dr. Nowell told Officer Dillow? Or do I believe my own memories, which go back only a few hours? Did I just hallucinate the cabin and what happened there?

Then I think of something. “I’ve got proof that what I told you is true,” I say, sliding my hand into my coat pocket until it touches the glass of the frame. “I’ve got a photo of my family that I took from the cabin. That proves I was there.”

“A photo?” Some emotion edges Officer Dillow’s voice, but it’s not surprise. Instead, it sounds like exhaustion. “Katie, when you’re in a mental hospital, I’m pretty sure they allow you to have family photos.”

I try to imagine that what he’s saying is true. To picture a hospital room with white linoleum floors and a single white bed in the middle. To remember the scent of disinfectant, the fluorescent glow of overhead lights. To visualize Michael Brenner, not dragging me through the woods but earnestly talking to me in an office as he hands me a tissue.

Only the pictures I conjure up are fuzzy and flat, unmoving. My body still remembers his hands dragging me through the trees. In my ears, I still hear the sounds of his ragged breathing.

Officer Dillow is right. I don’t have any way to prove what I’m saying. The photo could have come from a hospital bedside table as easily as the cabin mantel. The cell phone, the wallet, the keys, the car, and even the coat can be explained away. In Dr. Nowell and Officer Dillow’s version of the story, I took them all from a counselor at Sagebrush who was only trying to help me.

Is that who I am? A crazy girl in a mental hospital? So crazy that she killed a man and then made up a story for herself so she wouldn’t have to think about the ugly reality?

Would I even know if I was crazy? Maybe that’s impossible. But I haven’t heard any voices or seen any visions. Don’t schizophrenic people hear commands from dogs and TV sets and their own fillings? In the past hour, the only person I’ve heard talking to me is Officer Dillow, and I think he’s probably real.

And then I think of one thing that doesn’t fit Dr. Nowell’s story. And it’s also the thing that will get me out of here. Because I don’t want to wait until Dr. Nowell shows up. Whoever he is, I’m pretty sure that what he wants won’t be good for me. In my version of the story, he’ll probably kill me. In Officer Dillow’s version, he’ll just lock me up for a long time.

Neither idea sounds like a winner.

I slide my hand behind my back and into the waistband of my jeans.

“Look, I do have something else that I took from the cabin. Something that will prove to you I’m telling the truth.”

“What is it, Katie?” Officer Dillow says with a sigh.

I slide over and press the barrel of the gun through the mesh, angling it right at him. “This.”

He turns his head and gasps. My eyes have adjusted enough that I can see how he freezes, not moving so much as an eyelash. If I wanted to, I could pull the trigger right now and blow him away.

“I took this gun from Michael Brenner. He was going to shoot me with it. That Dr. Nowell—whoever he is—told you that Michael Brenner was a counselor. So if he was a counselor, why was he carrying a gun?”

“I don’t know, Katie.” Officer Dillow takes a deep breath. “All I know is that the caller ID showed Sagebrush. But maybe you’re right. Maybe this Dr. Nowell wasn’t telling me the truth. Or not the whole truth anyway. Look, why don’t you put that down and we can talk about things. And I promise to listen.”

I think it’s likely that Officer Dillow is telling the truth.

At least, the truth as he knows it.

The weird thing is that I almost trust him. But he doesn’t trust me. And doesn’t believe me.

“I don’t want to shoot you,” I tell him, trying to sound tough. “But I will if I have to. I need you to unlock my doors and then get out of the car and trade places with me. And if you don’t do exactly what I say, I will be forced to shoot you.” I wonder if I actually can. If he doesn’t let me out, will I really shoot him?

“You’re making a mistake, Katie. You need me to help you figure out what’s going on. Put the gun down on the seat and I’ll help you.”

He has no idea how much I want to do what he says. “Just do it,” I bark. Or at least I try to bark, but in my own ears my voice sounds whiny. Like I’m a little kid. Like I’m on the edge of tears.

But Officer Dillow does what I say. He unlocks my doors, lets me get out, and leaves the car only when I tell him to. He puts his gun on the ground. Then he gets in the back seat, and I lock him inside. And I pick up his gun and run back to Michael Brenner’s SUV and I drive away as fast as I can.

Not knowing where I’m going.

I only know I can’t trust anyone.

Maybe not even myself.

On the way out of Newberry Ranch, I hit the yellow speed bumps so hard that my teeth clack together at each one. I have to get out of here. Dr. Nowell might turn down this road at any second. Or someone out walking a dog could find Officer Dillow locked in the back of his own patrol car and sound the alarm.

I don’t realize I’m crying until I hear my shaky breaths punctuated with little indrawn sobs. I feel totally alone. All I know is that I’m in big trouble, and it’s just gotten a lot worse. I’m sure Officer Dillow memorized the license plate number on this car. It won’t be long until every cop in the county is looking for me. Looking for the girl who killed Michael Brenner.

I think of how his breathing must have dwindled, folded up on itself, and stopped. Does he have a family, like the family in my photo? I remember the contents of his wallet. Gas cards and credit cards but no snapshots, at least not that I saw. I killed another human being. Is it because I hit him in the throat? Because of the rock his head hit?

I tell myself I didn’t mean for it to happen. He tried to kill me, and I didn’t try to kill him. It was an accident. Right?

Where do I go now? What do I do? Is there any place I can go where people might actually believe me, someplace where they might think twice before turning me over to the man who claims I’m a mental patient? Someplace where they might actually demand some proof? I think back to the map I saw on Google Maps. My choices are Bend, which is about forty minutes to the east, or Portland, which is the nearest big city, a little less than three hours to the northwest. Either way, I could go to the police station or maybe a lawyer. Security Officer Dillow, dressed in his polyester uniform and reading his People magazine, believed Dr. Nowell. Or the man who called himself Dr. Nowell. But a lawyer or a real cop might be more suspicious.

I’m shaking, and it’s more than just fear. I’m exhausted. My stomach is a hard ball of hunger, and someone is hammering a steel spike into my left eye. There’s no way I can drive three hours. Especially not when every cop in the vicinity will soon be looking for me. So Bend it is. When I reach the highway, I go east.

I need to find a place the car will blend in. Something with a big parking lot, like a large grocery store. Maybe I can lie down in the back seat, pull this big coat over me like a blanket, and go to sleep, at least for a few hours. I can’t stay any place where security or police might get curious, might run the plates or ask to see my driver’s license. If anyone questions me, I’m screwed. I don’t have ID, and I’m sure this car will be reported stolen.

Maybe I should get rid of it. But then how will I get any place? How will I get away if someone comes after me? My thoughts run through the same maze over and over again, never finding any answers. And my headache gets worse.