Page 53 of Hate So Deep
Lauren
As soon as I step inside, I find Mom sitting on the couch across from the two detectives who shook me down over the deleted text messages not so long ago.
The older guy with the hardened gaze looks up when I enter and says, “Miss Stark, we have a few questions for you.”
With a trickle of unease, I sit beside my mom while she stares into the distance and clasp my icy hands together.
Is this it? Should I lie or tell the truth?
“You’re familiar with Aimee Holmes, Miss Stark?” the other detective says, and I eye her with a frown before slowly nodding.
“Okay, when was the last time you saw her?” the detective asks.
“Um.” Rubbing my brow, I try to remember but Aimee almost never came to the house, and we weren’t exactly friendly.
Buck didn’t bring his girlfriend’s home and so, more often than not, I learned of their existence and the breakup through school gossip.
“Maybe at school,” I say and the detective glances at his partner.
“Did you see her the night of the incident?”
When Mom shifts beside me, I glance at her sideways but she’s still glaring at the wall and I mumble, “No, we didn’t hang out.”
“Miss Stark,” the first detective says. “It’s important that we retrace the events of that night. Time is of the essence if we want to find Aimee.”
I’ve been racking my brain for weeks. I don’t fucking know, all of which I don’t say, instead, whispering, "She's still missing?”
When the detective nods, I sag to the couch. If something happened to Aimee, then there’s no way I was involved. Right?
I mean, why would I hurt some girl I barely knew? And how could I possibly subdue them both?
It doesn’t make sense and turning to my mom, I ask, “Did you know?”
Of course, she ignores my question and says, stiffly, “Is that all?”
“No,” the detective says, glancing at the notepad in his hand, “we traced her movements through cell phone data the night she went missing. She was here for approximately three hours.”
She was? Why?
My heart sinks at the notion because if she was here that means Buck was too. Is it possible I did something and then they left? But why? How?
“Are you sure neither of you saw Aimee?” the first detective asks.
“I told you, I was at work,” Mom snaps and he raises a brow.
“At nine o’clock at night?”
“I run an entire company,” she sneers. “I don’t get time off like other people do.”
When the detective turns to me, I shake my head and whisper, “I was at a party.”
The questions continue until I’m dizzy with dread before they finally leave, Mom’s parting shot causing the lead detective to stiffen when she says, “Call me when you’ve figured out who murdered my son.”
Once they’re gone, I turn to Mom while she glares at the wall and say, “Mom?”
When she pushes to her feet, I follow, asking, “Mom? What’s going on?”
“I don’t know, Lauren,” she spits. “Maybe you should search your spotty memory.”
