Blackbird by Cheryl McIntyre

Author:Cheryl McIntyre
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: General Fiction
Publisher: Cheryl McIntyre
Published: 2013-02-17T08:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY

“IT WAS IN the afternoon,” you say. “I don’t know the exact time I woke up, but it was light out when I left the station.”

“The report from the subway station put it at just before three P.M.”

The detective has a gray beard and mustache. In his plain green shirt and gray pants he looks like he could be someone’s grandfather. There’s been no pounding on the table. He hasn’t even raised his voice.

Instead he asks slow, specific questions. It’s been like this for hours. He writes everything you say on a yellow legal pad. He keeps scribbling things down, flipping the page over, and scribbling more. There’s a camera in the corner and you can feel that they’re watching, that somewhere several officers are standing around, waiting to hear more from the girl from the office robbery downtown.

“We should have more answers after you’re admitted to the hospital, but as I understand it—you haven’t had any flashbacks? No memories that seem like they could be from the days before you woke up?”

“There are things . . . but I don’t know what they are. I don’t know if they mean anything.”

“What kind of things?”

“There was this funeral. I had a flash of it. . . . It was only for a few seconds.”

“Whose funeral?”

“I don’t know, really. I was just walking past a coffin and it felt like someone I knew had died. That’s all. It was barely anything.”

The man nods. They took your knapsack when you came in and you still haven’t gotten it back. You’ve mentally gone through the contents, hoping everything in it backs up your story, that everything, eventually, can be explained. You’ve told them about your memory loss, about Ivan and the way you were set up, the robbery he staged downtown, the woman he killed. The men, the house, that they took Ivan somewhere. Each time they asked why, what this was all about, you hesitated. You can feel the words on your lips . . . I am being hunted . . . but you can’t bring yourself to say them. You don’t want them to discount all you’ve said before. You need them to believe you, to listen.

“And the man, the one who said his name was Ivan? Have you had any memories or flashbacks of him or the woman he killed?”

“No,” you say. “None. Did you find anything about his car? Was it where I left it?”

“Yeah, an officer found it an hour ago. There wasn’t anything inside.”

“Can’t you trace it?”

“The VIN number was filed off. It was completely clean—nothing on the inside doors, the engine, the steering column. We’re thinking it was stolen a while ago. They’re running tests on the trunk, but nothing yet.”

He shuffles some papers, as if preparing to leave. You take a deep breath. You know that this is it, that you need to tell him now.

“There’s something else.” You clasp you hands together, squeezing the blood from your fingers. “The men who were at that house, the ones who took Ivan .

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