One Week After Pine Cottage
Good Cop and Bad Cop stared at Quincy, expecting something she couldn’t provide. Detective Freemont, that old bulldog, looked rough around the edges, as if he hadn’t slept in days. Quincy noticed he wore the same jacket from their first interview, its glaring mustard stain still intact. Detective Cole, on the other hand, remained a handsome devil, in spite of the bristle on his upper lip that wanted to be a mustache. Its edges flared when he smiled at her.
“You’re probably nervous,” he said. “Don’t be.”
Yet Quincy was very nervous. Only two days out of the hospital and she was in a police station, pushed there in a wheelchair by her exasperated mother because it still hurt to walk. Wheeled in at the request of the two detectives sitting across from her.
“We just have a few more questions,” Cole said.
“I’ve already told you everything I know,” Quincy said.
Freemont gave a sorry shake of his head. “Which is a whole lot of nothing.”
“Listen, we don’t want you to think we’re harassing you,” Cole said. “We just need to make sure we know everything that happened out at that cabin. For the families. Surely, you can understand that.”
Quincy didn’t want to think about all those grieving parents and siblings and friends. Janelle’s mother had visited her in the hospital. Red-eyed and trembling, she begged Quincy to tell her that Janelle hadn’t suffered, that her daughter had felt no pain when she died. “She didn’t feel a thing,” Quincy lied. “I’m sure of it.”
“I understand,” she told Cole. “I want to help. I really do.”
The detective reached into a briefcase at his feet and pulled out a file folder, which he placed on the table. Next came a metallic rectangle—a tape recorder, now set atop the folder.
“We’re going to ask you a few questions,” he said. “If you don’t mind, we’d like to record the conversation.”
Anxiety flickered through Quincy as she stared at the tape recorder. “Sure,” she said, the word emerging in an uneasy wobble.
Cole pressed the record button before saying, “Now tell us, Quincy, to the best of your ability, what you remember about that night.”
“The whole night? Or when Janelle started screaming? Because I don’t remember much after that.”
“The whole night.”
“Well—” Quincy paused, shifting slightly to peer out the window set into the upper half of the door. The door itself had been closed once her mother was asked to wait outside. The window’s square pane revealed only a bit of ivory-colored wall and the corner of a poster warning about the dangers of drunk driving. Quincy couldn’t see her mother. She couldn’t see anyone.
“We know there was drinking,” Freemont said. “And marijuana use.”
“There was,” Quincy admitted. “I didn’t do either.”
“A good girl, eh?” Freemont said.
“Yes.”
“But it was a party,” Cole said.
“Yes.”
“And Joe Hannen was there?”
Quincy flinched at the sound of his name. Her three stab wounds, still stitched tight, began to throb.
“Yes.”
“Did something happen during the party?” Freemont asked. “Something that made him angry? Did anyone tease him? Abuse him? Maybe hurt him in a way that would make him want to lash out?”
“No,” Quincy said.
“Did anything happen that made you angry?”
”No,” Quincy said again, stressing the word, hoping it would make the lie somehow ring true.
“We looked at the results of your sexual assault forensic exam,” Freemont said.
He was referring to the rape kit Quincy endured once her wounds had been stitched up. She didn’t remember much. Only staring at the ceiling and trying to hold back sobs as the nurse calmly talked her through each step.
“It says you had engaged in sexual intercourse that night. Is that true?”
Shame scorched Quincy’s cheeks as she gave a single nod.
“Was it consensual?” Freemont said.
Quincy nodded again, the hot flush spreading to her forehead, her neck.
“Are you sure? It’s OK to tell us if it wasn’t.”
“It was,” Quincy replied. “Consensual, I mean. I wasn’t raped.”
Detective Cole cleared his throat, as eager as Quincy to change the subject. “Let’s move on. Let’s talk about what happened after your friend Janelle came out of the woods and you were stabbed. Are you certain you can’t remember anything that happened after that?”
“Yes.”
“Try,” Cole suggested. “Just for a few minutes.”
Quincy closed her eyes, trying for what felt like the hundredth time that week to conjure even the faintest memory of that missing hour. She took deep breaths, each one straining her stitches. Her head began to hurt. Another headache ballooning in her skull. All she saw was blackness.
“I’m sorry,” she whimpered. “I can’t.”
“Nothing at all?” Freemont said.
“No.” Quincy was trembling now, on the verge of tears. “There’s nothing.”
Freemont crossed his arms and gave her an annoyed huff. Cole simply stared at her, squinting slightly, as if he could see her better that way.
“I’m a little thirsty,” he announced, turning to Freemont. “Hank, could you be a sport and get me a coffee from the vending machine?”
The request seemed to surprise Freemont. “Really?”
“Yes. Please.” Cole looked to Quincy. “Are you allowed to have coffee?”
“I don’t know.”
“We better not risk it,” Cole decided. “Caffeine and those pain meds you’re on might not mix too well, am I right? That wouldn’t be good for you. Sheesh.”
It was the last word that tipped Quincy off. Spoken with such forced cheer, it all but announced that it was nothing more than an act. Cole’s handsome face. Those warm, vaguely sexy smiles. All of it was just a charade.
Cole confirmed this once Freemont was out of the room.
“I’ll give you credit,” he told her. “You’re good.”
“You don’t believe me,” Quincy said.
“Not one bit. But we’re going to find out the truth eventually. Think about that, Quincy. Imagine how your friends’ parents will feel when they find out you’ve been lying all this time. Sheesh.”
That time, he winked as he said it. His way of telling Quincy he knew that she knew.
“Now, you can talk all you want about how you don’t remember anything,” he said. “But you and I both know you do.”
Again, a strange shift began to take place inside Quincy. An internal hardening. Everything galvanized. She pictured her skin turning to metal, polished and gleaming. A shield protecting her from Cole’s accusations. It made her feel strong.
“I’m sorry my lack of memory makes you angry,” she said. “You can spend years asking me stuff, but until my memory comes back, my answers will always be the same.”
“I might just do that,” Cole replied. “I’ll go to your house. Every month. Hell, once a week. I suspect your parents will soon start to wonder why that handsome detective keeps coming over asking questions.”
Quincy flashed a smart-assed smile. “Only mildly handsome.”
“I wouldn’t be smiling if I were you,” Cole said. “Six kids are dead, Quincy. Their parents want answers. And the only survivor is you, a wispy little girl who claims she can’t remember a thing.”
“You actually think I did it?”
“I think you’re certainly hiding something. Maybe I’ll change my mind if you finally tell me everything you saw that night, including the stuff you’ve conveniently forgotten.”
“I’ve told you everything I know,” she said. “What makes you think I’m lying?”
“Because it doesn’t add up,” Cole replied. “Your prints are on the knife that killed all your friends.”
“And so are everyone else’s.” Anger swelled in Quincy’s chest as she thought about how many times that knife switched hands. Janelle, Amy and Betz all definitely touched it. He did, too. “And I shouldn’t have to remind you of this, but I was also stabbed. Three times.”
“Two stab wounds to the shoulder and one in the abdomen,” Cole said. “None of them life-threatening.”
“Not for lack of trying.”
“You want to hear what the others experienced?”
Cole reached for the folder atop the table. When he opened it, Quincy saw photographs. Her photographs. Taken with her camera. Of course the police had found it at Pine Cottage and downloaded the pictures stored within it.
The detective slide a photograph across the table. It showed Janelle sticking out her tongue in front of Pine Cottage, mugging for the camera.
“Janelle Bennett,” he said. “Four stab wounds. One each to the heart, lungs, back and stomach. Plus a slit throat.”
The comforting mental shell Quincy had felt earlier suddenly faded into nothingness. Now she was all exposed underbelly.
“Stop,” she murmured.
Cole ignored her, whipping out another photograph. Craig this time. Standing heroically atop the rock they had hiked to.
“Craig Anderson. Six stab wounds, ranging in depth from two to six inches.”
“Please.”
Next came the photo of Rodney and Amy squeezing each other on the hike. Quincy remembered what she’d said while taking it. Make love to the camera.
“Rodney Spelling,” Cole said. “Four stab wounds. Two to the abdomen. One on his arm. One in the heart.”
”Stop!” Quincy screamed, loud enough to bring in Freemont and a uniformed cop who hovered in the doorway. She recognized him immediately. Officer Cooper, fixing her with a protective blue-eyed stare. The mere sight of him filled her with relief.
“What’s going on in here?” he asked. “Quincy, are you okay?”
Quincy looked at him, still on the verge of tears but refusing to let them see her cry.
“Tell him,” she begged. “Tell him I didn’t do anything. Tell him I’m a good person.”
Officer Cooper moved to her side, making Quincy think he was about to hug her. She welcomed it. She wanted to feel safe in someone’s arms. Instead, he put a large, steady hand on her shoulder.
“You’re a wonderful person,” he said, addressing her but looking squarely at Detective Cole. “You’re a survivor.”