I know it’s not right that I didn’t want Aiden to go help Caroline. I know that he should go. Of course, he should. But I can’t help how I feel. I’m afraid. I don't want anything else bad to happen and, at this point, I don't know what Tom is capable of. Still, Aiden doesn’t listen to me. He leaves me alone in the room with the 911 operator on the line. I pace around the room, trying to decide what to do. Should I follow after him, just in case he needs my help? Or should I just say here? Stay safe.

The 911 operator keeps asking me questions about what happened and I answer the best I can. I tell her about getting a number of calls from Caroline, and that I didn’t see them until later this morning. After a while, we end up covering the same ground. I don't know why I have to stay on the line, but she insists that we should until the police arrive. After what feels like forever, but is probably only ten or fifteen minutes later, I hear sirens somewhere in the distance.

“They’re here,” I say.

“Okay, just walk out there and make sure that it’s them,” she says.

I run out of the cottage and see two police cars pulling into the parking lot up front. The paramedics aren’t far behind. Aiden meets us out front as well.

“I couldn’t find him anywhere,” he says with a disappointed look on his face. “But you have to help Caroline. She’s still unresponsive.”

“Is she breathing?” one of the police officers asks.

“Yes, but very faintly,” he says.

The next hour or so is a complete blur. There are so many emergency personnel walking around all over the place that I get overwhelmed and just find a quiet place to sit and wait until someone talks to me. I watch as the paramedics rush Caroline, on a stretcher, to an ambulance. There are all sorts of tubes attached to her and my eyes well up with tears at the sight.

“At least, she’s not coming out in a black body bag,” Aiden says. This statement is supposed to make me feel better, but instead, it just makes me feel like total shit. I should’ve answered her calls and texts earlier. I shouldn’t have spent all night making love and then writing. Then maybe none of this would’ve ever happened.

“She called me. A lot,” I say, burying my head in his shoulder. “I should’ve been there for her.”

“This isn’t your fault. Not at all,” Aiden says. “You had no idea any of this would happen.”

I believe him, of course, but only partly. A big part of me doesn’t believe him at all. I know what I should’ve and shouldn’t have done, and I know that I had failed her. Even if I didn’t know, that’s still no excuse.

A police officer approaches us and asks to take my statement. His partner takes Aiden aside, probably to get his own statement.

“Can you tell me what happened?” he asks. I had already told the story to the 911 operator and to Aiden, but I repeat it again. I’ve seen enough crime shows and true crime documentaries on television to know how this works. They keep asking you to re-tell your story in order to see if you mess up. Or add anything that you haven’t added before. It’s all about being consistent. It’s supposed to point out who the liar is. But I have nothing to hide. I tell him the whole truth and nothing but the truth, exactly how it happened.

The police officer listens carefully and writes down parts in his little notebook.

“Have you found Tom?” I ask at the end.

“Actually, no.” He shakes his head. “We can’t find him anywhere.”

My heart sinks into my stomach. What is he talking about?

“But when he attacked me, I hit him on the head with a rock and he fell down right there. In the front yard,” I say.

“And your boyfriend, Aiden Black? Is that his name?” he asks, reading off his notes.

“Uh-huh.” I nod.

“He went out to check on Caroline after you ran back to your cottage?” the police officer asks.

“Yes, while I was on the phone with the 911 operator.”

“Well, that’s the odd thing; he didn’t see him either.”

I already know this. But I don’t really have an explanation as to why not.

“I don’t really know what to say.” I shrug. “I mean, I hit him hard but it’s not like he was dead or anything. Maybe he just ran away. Because he knew I was going to call the police.”

“Maybe,” the cop says unconvincingly. Suddenly, it hits me. Wait a second. What is going on here? Is he really questioning my story? What does all this skepticism on his face mean? Is he trying to say that I’m lying?

“I don’t understand,” I say. “Are you trying to imply that you don’t believe me?”

Now I feel myself getting angry. I mean, who the hell does he think he is?

“No, not at all. I’m just telling you what we know now.”

“Well, I’m not lying. He was the one who did it. He was right there when I left him. If he ran afterward, well, I don't know what I can do about that.”

My voice is rushed and on the verge of losing control. I’m angry that he’s questioning me after all that I’ve been through. What gives him the right?

“Okay, I didn’t mean to upset you, Ms. Rhodes,” the cop says after a moment. “Let me talk to my partner and I’ll be right back with you.”

He leaves me sitting on the stoop of my cottage. Even though morning is in full bloom already, the air feels colder than it ever did before. Whatever sun peeks through the cloud cover, it’s not enough to warm me up. Suddenly, I feel an overwhelming feeling of despair and loss come over me. I want to scream and cry at the same time. I want them to believe me and leave me alone. I want to go back to bed and pretend that none of this ever happened. I want to turn back time. Shivers run through my body and I don’t know if they can be attributed entirely to the cold, or the fact that I didn’t really sleep at all last night or everything that has happened. Perhaps, it’s some sort of combination of all three.

I wrap my arms around my shoulders and rock from side to side. This soothes me somewhat and my heartbeat slows down to its normal pace after a while. I inhale and exhale deeply and force all the bad thoughts swirling around in my head to go away at least for a few minutes.