Only The Trees Know, page 2
“Did you have anything to do with their deaths?” Sanchez asked.
“No.”
Detective Adams chimed in, “If it was an accident, it’s okay. You can tell us about that. We know you didn’t mean to kill them.” She still leaned into my space. Did she have a thing with personal boundaries, or was her intent to make me nervous? Either way, I wasn’t going to let it bother me. I’d faced down worse demons.
I shook my head ‘no’ as she spoke and continued after she finished. Not that I expected my insistent denial to make a difference. Clearly, they were going to pin this on me no matter what I said. So why did I care what they thought?
She pressed on. “We want to help you. But we can’t unless you trust us.”
Like I believed that.
How long would they keep me here? I was hungry, tired, thirsty, and needed to pee. I’d not rested since the rescue. They hadn’t even taken me to the hospital to have me checked out. The constant battering questions made my brain hurt. I laid my head on the table. Exhaustion made every part of me—even the parts that hurt—feel sluggish.
“I didn’t kill them,” I said again, for all the good it would do.
Detective Sanchez opened a manila folder. He flicked through a stack of papers before extracting several photographs. He slid them across the table fanning them out, forcing me to raise my head. “Tell us how they died.”
“I don’t want to see these,” I said, pushing the images back toward Detective Sanchez. I wiped at the sweat that soaked my forehead and neck in spite of the cold.
The pictures of my friends snagged my attention, though. It was obvious they were dead in the crime scene photos, their bodies contorted in grotesque ways. Sightless eyes stared at the camera. I was still covered in Liam’s blood. He was the only one of the three whose death had been bloody. The other two appeared unnaturally still and yet not peaceful, as if they’d died screaming. Sickly, I couldn’t look away.
This wasn’t new information, of course. I’d been there. I’d seen their bodies after they died. Each death had been burned into my memory. Still, with a little distance, seeing the pictures was tangible proof it hadn’t been a dream. The trip had been real. My friends were dead.
Oh, God. My stomach gave a twisted gurgle.
These detectives were playing games with me. I wondered if they were enjoying themselves. If they got some sort of thrill from torturing me. Or if they’d placed bets on when I’d cry, puke, or both.
It worked, unfortunately. I had to swallow several times, unable to keep down a gag. I turned my head away, breathing slowly through my nose, exhaling out my mouth. If I vomited on the table would they stop pushing for answers I couldn’t give? Or would that make them more aggressive? Convince them they were getting closer to the truth?
Adams must have sensed that I’d reached a wall where I couldn’t—or wouldn’t—answer any more questions. There was little point in pushing me further and we all knew it. I had no room left to bend.
“Let’s take a moment to regroup,” she said, once again smiling with that small tilt of her lips. It reminded me of a snake about to strike. “Would you like something to drink?”
Not answering, I put my forehead back on the table, pulling my arms around my head to form a barrier. My breath sounded loud in my ears. It gave me something to focus on besides my friends’ murders. My stomach hadn’t settled either. The danger of vomiting would become inevitable if something didn't change.
“Soda?” Adams pressed into the silence.
“Water, thank you,” I said, not looking up.
I heard the scrape of her chair as she stood.
“I’ll be right back. You two play nice while I’m gone.” She’d said it as a joke. I wondered if it was some kind of code between the two detectives. Like: break him now that he feels vulnerable.
I’d seen cop shows. I knew how a shakedown worked. Now that I’d experienced one firsthand, I could sympathize with the need to admit guilt no matter the truth just to get them to shut up. My head hurt enough at this point that I’d consider agreeing to anything. I knew now that I’d made a mistake talking to them and wondered how I could extract myself without making it worse. I’d been a fool to think I could make them listen.
Sanchez waited till the door closed behind Adams before he started back in on me. Pushing for more now that we were alone. Just as I’d expected would happen.
“You say that you had nothing to do with your friends’ deaths,” Sanchez said, “but when we found you, you were covered in Liam Kirkpatrick’s blood.”
“That’s because I tried to stop him from bleeding out.” It was almost impossible to hold in my frustration. Exploding would only make everything worse, I knew that. Still, to constantly answer the same questions pushed the limits of my patience. I lifted my head to stare at him. “I was lying over him when the ranger got there. Ask him. I didn’t want Liam to die. Of course I had his blood on me.”
“Will we find Parker or Zoe’s blood on you too?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Why didn’t you render them aid like you did with Liam? Why try to save him and not the others?” Sanchez asked.
“Because they were already dead when we found them,” I said. “Plus, they weren’t bleeding.”
Sanchez gave me a shrewd look. “How did they die?”
“How should I know? You’re the detective, you figure it out.” I wasn’t going to make any guesses, even though I could. Not when Sanchez tried his best to entrap me.
“We found your campsite,” Sanchez said. Maybe the subject change was made to calm me. Or maybe to get me confused. “Going off the list you provided us of the items you took with you, everything is accounted for except your extra clothes. Why would your clothes be missing?”
“I have no idea. Maybe they were stolen.”
“Why would someone steal one set of your clothes but leave everything else?”
“How should I know?” I asked, exasperated. “You ask me these questions like I have answers.”
“You do have answers, Mr. Harrison.”
“No, I don’t,” I insisted.
“Did you have a knife?”
“Of course. We were camping for a week; knives are essential.”
“Where is your knife now?” Sanchez asked.
“I assume with our things.”
“Why didn’t you take it with you when you ran?”
I shook my head, looking away from him. Trying to concentrate, because my mind wandered, trying to shut down from confusion and remembered horror. How could I explain? “We weren’t thinking. We had to get out of there. We were scared.”
“And drugs? Were you using drugs?”
I paused, unsure how to answer that question.
“Come on, Mr. Harrison.” Sanchez pressed. “We’re going to do a toxicology screening. If there are drugs in anyone’s system, we’ll find that out.”
“If anyone else doped up, that’s not my business. I don’t control what other people take.”
“And if we find traces of drugs in your system?” Sanchez asked.
I shrugged, hating that they’d know. But there was nothing I could do about it.
Instead of answering, I stared at the camera mounted in the ceiling directly across from my chair. Strategically placed so that whoever watched on the closed-circuit monitor could view my every reaction and record it for all time. I hated that I was on display for an unknown audience.
Was Detective Adams there? That would certainly explain what took her so long to return. Ever since she mentioned the water, my throat felt like the Sahara. Aspirin would be welcome too.
As if my thoughts had made her reappear, a light knock rapped on the door before Detective Adams opened it. She placed a closed bottle of water in front of me before she retook her seat next to Sanchez.
Sanchez leaned back and crossed his arms, relaxing into his seat once again. Apparently, he would take second fiddle to Good Cop now that she’d returned.
I cracked the water open. It was tepid, doing little to alleviate my thirst.
“For losing three friends, you’re acting very calm,” Adams said.
“This is not calm. This is angry.” I tried to keep my voice even as I screwed the cap back on and set the bottle aside.
“There’s no one else it could possibly be,” Sanchez said. “You were alone in the woods. There are no other suspects.”
“Of course there are,” I yelled, and followed it with a hysterical laugh. God, I was losing it.
“Who? Tell me who else was there.”
“The killer.” I let out a frustrated sigh. Why wouldn’t they listen? “How should I know who the psycho is? We were being hunted.”
“You were in an isolated part of Yosemite,” Sanchez said. He leaned forward again. “You were the only four there.”
“That’s not true,” I insisted. If I kept saying it, would they eventually believe me?
“Offer us another theory,” Adams suggested, doing her best to defuse the growing tension between me and Sanchez. “Was there a specific person that you saw on the trail? Someone you recall as being suspicious? Anyone that sticks out in your mind as being a little off?”
“There was a guy.” I nodded, leaning forward. “A transient dude. I mean, he looked homeless, like he hadn’t showered in forever. His clothes were grimey and he had this huge beard.” I gestured around my face indicating how large the beard was. “He was nuts and confronted us inside the store in Tioga. And then later on the trail we ran into him again, only that time he screamed obscenities at us. He was in our camp. He was the reason we ran.”
“Come on,” Sanchez scoffed. “Your friends are dead. You’re the only one alive. You were covered in blood. Now you tell us someone was in your camp? Do you expect us to believe you?” He made a loud sound of disbelief. “How many homeless people have you seen hiking?”
I clinched my jaw. “He was there. I know what I saw.”
“We know you did this,” Sanchez practically growled. “We’re going to prove it.”
Adams cleared her throat. She waited till both Sanchez and I leaned back into our chairs, before she said, “Let’s go over your story again. Step by step, in detail. How did you all decide to go on the camping trip? Whose idea was it?”
“It was Liam’s,” I said.
Adams nodded. “Tell us about that.”
“Liam was always the man with the plan.”
As I answered their questions and went over the details of our trip as many times as they asked, I knew not everything could be blamed on this one adventure. This had been the end of a long series of mistakes.
My troubles started long before I even met my friends, each disaster shaping this outcome. Everything had switched for me when I moved west and met Liam. Because really, Liam had been the catalyst of everything.
Chapter Three
THEN…
FIFTEEN-YEARS-OLD
I’d gotten bored. I was stuck at my grandfather’s house, which meant I didn’t have any of my usual console games to entertain me. They’d sent me to an empty guest room so that I’d be out of the way. I’d wasted time on my phone apps for the last hour, long enough to become curious as to what was going on. Eventually my phone wasn’t enough to keep me occupied.
I silently slunk through my grandfather’s house knowing that I took a chance at a severe punishment for spying. I’d been given an order to stay upstairs. To stay out of the way in an effort to pretend I didn’t exist. They always tried to leave me out of the “adult conversations.” Rarely did it work.
When I reached the landing, it was evident they were in the front sitting room. The yelling was loud, so I didn’t have to be careful as I descended the wide, curved stairs, going for speed instead of sleuthing. They wouldn’t hear me anyway, but I didn’t want to get caught in the open.
Snooping was the only way to survive in my family. Being fifteen meant that I needed to protect myself. To know who to avoid and when. Nothing surprised me anymore. I was aware of the sketchy back-door agreements that took place between my parents and my grandfather. What I needed to know was how “the crisis,” as my parents called it, would affect me. That made it worth taking the risk.
I was careful to remain concealed. Taking a risk and being stupid were two different things. I didn’t want to become a target. When my father and my grandfather were in a rage, anything was possible and it was best to stay out of the path of the storm.
The sitting room was an ostentatious display of wealth, large with high ceilings and gold-leafed furniture. Made so that when a guest was invited inside, they’d be intimidated by its over the top display.
As expected, my father and my grandfather faced off near the eight-foot fireplace. While my mother cried in the far corner, her face twisted against the heavy brocade of the chair back. The crying itself wasn’t unusual. Her constant flood of tears was almost too much for me at this point. It was difficult to feel sorry for someone who theatrically mourned her life and never did anything to make it better.
With all the tension, and the fact that her face looked swollen, maybe this time there was a reason for her tears. I was sure she’d been hit at some point tonight. That was usual at home. Yet it surprised me now because my grandfather ordinarily wouldn’t let my father take out his rage on her in front of him.
“You can’t stay here,” my grandfather said to my dad. He didn’t just mean in his house, he meant we needed to leave New York as well. The discussion about us moving and my father taking over one of the smaller family companies that my grandfather owned had been ongoing for months. Not that a change of venue would stop my father’s embezzling. He may have dodged jail time, but I couldn't understand how the Board would allow this. “Take your family and move to California. You’ve ruined our name and we need time to rebuild. You can come back once everything has blown over.”
“We’ve lost all our money,” my mother said between sobs. “How are we supposed to move?”
Ignoring my mother, he spoke directly to my father. Everyone in the room knew he wouldn’t back down from this, including me. “I’ll set you up with a house and give you a line of credit, but you still have to go.” He made no mention that there was no way we were as destitute as my mother claimed given the millions my father had stolen.
“I haven’t done anything different than what you’ve taught me,” my father said, his tone was booming, cracking the room.
And that was probably true. He’d embezzled from the family businesses, bought off politicians, probably broke more laws than the Board had found. I’m sure my grandfather had done much the same thing over his lifetime.
“I never got caught, and I never taught you to be stupid.” My grandfather, as old as he was, wouldn’t be blamed for my father’s shortcomings.
“What do you expect us to do?” my father asked.
My grandfather shrugged. “Lie low. In a few years you can come back and take your spot on the Board again. For now it appeases our shareholders to pretend you don’t exist.”
“You’re punishing me like I’m a child.”
“I’m giving you a place to live and a job,” my grandfather said. “I should leave you with nothing and you’re still not happy?”
My father grunted. “It’s not my fault. If that stupid accountant—”
“It doesn’t matter whose fault it is. We just need to fix it.” There was a sighing sound from my grandfather. Not anger. It sounded more like weariness. He’d never sounded his age before, and now he sounded ancient.
My grandfather had little love for my father and treated him like he was an idiot. It was the same dynamic in our family. My father told me he was hard on me because he loved me. Maybe that's what my grandfather had said to him. The only difference was his father controlled him with money, and I couldn't give two shits about money.
Money was the root of the family evil. My father would do whatever my grandfather wanted, because my grandfather had control of the will. My father’s money kept my mother in line in the exact same way. It wasn’t surprising that my parents were still married even though they hated each other. If she left, my mom would get nothing. And my dad strung her along in order to make her miserable. He had women on the side and there was nothing she could do about that.
Moving for my parents would be relatively easy. The government was in the process of taking our house to pay back taxes. They could pick up their life and resettle with little to no inconvenience.
For me, moving freaked me out. Especially to a new state. I was too old to start over. How did a person even make new friends?
Nobody had asked me what I wanted, of course. They didn’t give a crap what a fifteen-year-old kid thought. They told me what to do, and I would be expected to do it. I would never, ever be able to disagree. The scars I wore were a reminder that I wasn’t the one in charge.
Perhaps I was looking at this the wrong way. It was the perfect opportunity to reinvent myself. I could be whoever I wanted to be as long as my father never found out.
Chapter Four
NOW…
News crews crowded the edge of our lawn on the other side of the massive gates. They’d been camped there for over a week. At night their lights would shine into my bedroom until well after midnight, keeping me awake and brightening the otherwise dark street. They were like a mass of locusts, pushing forward to get the best shot of the exterior of the house. Not even the threat of a lawsuit or arrest could keep them from constantly ringing the front bell or surrounding our cars when we attempted to leave.
This time they were here for me and not my father. He didn’t appreciate the irony, but I certainly did. Not that I particularly cared for the notoriety. If I’d learned anything from him, it was not to garner attention. And I’d certainly done the complete opposite of that.
Flicking the curtain aside, I monitored them as they watched the house. I didn’t think they could see me from where I stood at the corner of the dark window. If my face appeared on the six o’clock news, my attorney would go apeshit.
