“Yes,” I say. My mouth is dry, my lips sticky. In every crime show I’ve ever watched, the police always start a questioning by offering the suspect water. I take a quick glance down at the table, but there’s nothing so much as a Dixie cup in sight.
“And you remember the night that Ms. Barton went missing? Looks like that would have been…” She flips open a manila envelope in front of her, although I’m sure that after having already asked this question four times now, she knows the date by heart. “December twenty-fifth, 2015.”
“Mostly.”
“Can you go through everything you remember from that day?”
Flashes return. The knife. Phoebe pleading.
“It was a normal day, as far as I remember,” I start, my voice surprisingly steady. “It was supposed to be our last day in Jagged Rock. We were due to head back to Sydney the next morning, so we spent it mostly packing and relaxing.”
“Except for dinner.”
“Right. We all had dinner that night together at the Raven Inn, where we were staying.”
“And did anything happen at that dinner?” Villanueva continues, not missing a beat.
“Nothing memorable, I don’t think.” I wait for her to follow up, to remind me of the fights that erupted around the table as the night devolved into chaos, but she stays silent. “And after dinner, I read a little bit and then went to bed.”
“Mm,” Sawkins ponders. “No drinks together, just reading and bed? That seems like quite a tame night. Especially on Christmas.”
A note of panic flicks at me, but I breathe it away. I’ve gotten used to lying after all these years.
“Yeah,” I respond with a humorless chuckle. “By that point in the trip, we were all exhausted. And it didn’t really feel like the holidays here. We’re used to winter weather and all that.”
“Let’s back up for just a moment,” Villanueva says. “You and Ms. Barton shared a room at the Raven Inn, correct?”
My memory hops back to that room, our two twin beds pushed to opposite walls, spread to reveal the once-maroon carpet, turned faded and dusty.
“Yes.”
“And you both went to bed at the same time that night?”
Again, scenes flash across my memory. Sneaking out of the Inn through the back door. Chasing after her as the stars sparkled above us.
“She actually wasn’t there when I went to bed,” I respond, hoping that kernel of truth will help spear the next lie I’m about to tell. “I don’t know where she went after dinner. I didn’t see her after we ate.”
“And she was acting completely normal that day?” This time the question comes from Sawkins.
“Yes, as far as I remember.” I blink, forcing my eyelids to washclean the memory of Phoebe, her knees buried in the red dirt, hands clasped in front of her, eyes pleading. “She didn’t do anything that struck me as strange.”
Villanueva looks at me for just a second too long before flicking her eyes back to the papers in front of her.
“Do you know if Ms. Barton was seeing anyone romantically at the time of her death?”
I feel my face flush. “There was a lot of…” I pause. “Intimacyamong the group in the weeks we were together.”
Villanueva interjects again with a knowing look. “And a lot of alcohol, I presume.”
I nod.
“We’ve seen this thing before,” Sawkins says haughtily. “Students coming over for study abroad programs, shedding the responsibilities they have at home. That’s usually when accidents happen.”
I feel as if I’m being scolded, but Villanueva shoos away Sawkins’s disdain. “Do you remember who in the group Phoebe had relations with?”
“I know that she and Kyan got together at the beginning of the trip.”
“Did that end poorly?”
