Where It Leads Us

Chapter Sixty-eight

While scrutinizing the emptiness of the room and its gray walls, which I feel would suck the life out of me in a few minutes if I am left here to sit by myself for some more time, my left leg starts bouncing up and down beneath the table as I try to contain myself from chewing my nails due to the intensity of the suffocating atmosphere.

On my left side, a glass frame almost took up the whole space of the wall, and I could only see my reflection there as it mimics the uneasiness written on my face. The only thing that makes me feel better is the thought of Clarissa standing on the other side of that glass who's waiting for me.

"You look stiff and uncomfortable," The investigator man says as he places a brown file on the table as soon as he entered the room.

It was obvious that he was passionate about his job and getting this case closed for good knowing too well that I wouldn't be here if it weren't for a passionate investigator like him.

"Relax, no need to be so tense. We'll just go through a series of questions and I can assure you that you'll be free to go after this."

The sound of the chair scraping against the floor can be plainly heard as he pulls the steel chair in front of him. The sound broke the peculiar silence of the room, overthrowing the uneasiness in my body.

I observe him as he settles in and finds comfort. I found it hard to see the forced grin on his face as I had become accustomed to his serious demeanor as he placed both of his hands on the table in front of me and intertwined his fingers.

"My name's Christopher Walters and I was assigned to take your parents' case. You are aware of the case, right?" I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at his query and instead gave a silent head nod in response as he asked.

"Great. Now, Ms. Sanders, let's talk about the night during which the incident happened," he started, "Where were you exactly? Can you guide me through every detail of what you did and saw when it happened?"

Walters. Of course, it's Aaren's dad. How could I have not recognized from the time I saw him at their house when I greeted him so formally, calling him "Sir"?

I let out a heavy sigh as I was made to relive the same exact detail and scenario of what had happened in front of my eyes and what I had heard in my ears.

He wasn't taking notes on a small pad like every other investigator I had spoken to previously, which I thought was weird. He was listening intently as I spoke, going through each incident of what I could recall from that night that only I could remember and wished to forget but was unable to.

I'm not sure how to address him but Christopher nods his head while keeping his eyes riveted to something within the brown file. He raises a piece of paper and pushes it in my direction on the table. Uncertain of what I should be looking at, I gaze up at him instead.

"You said that you heard something that night and assumed that there was a burglar at your home, is that correct?"

"I didn't assume. I know."

He nods his head and then drew an invisible circle on the photo he showed me using his silver pocket pen. He taps the circled picture and I quickly notice what he was referring to.

"After having a thorough examination, we believe that this matches yours."

I couldn't control the way I furrowed my eyebrows as my mouth hung slightly open in disbelief, "So, what are you saying?" I crossed my arms to my chest, falling back on the chair, "That I killed them or one of them?"

He gave me a blank stare as his brown eyes tested some kind of weathering emotion inside of me that was enough to cause erosion.

"I didn't say that," he says as I notice his left eye twitch as quickly as a flash.

I sighed, "Well, I told you that I went out of bed to get some glass of water. And yes, I was barefooted."

Christopher nods his head and took the photo out of my sight, inserting it back into the brown file, "Alright, next—"

He pulls another piece of paper and pushed it on the table in front of me. I fix my gaze on the image of the object that appears to be the murderous weapon that claimed one or both of their lives.

"We believe that this was one of the weapons that were used when the incident happened," He informs me, "Have you seen this before?"

I stare at it for a second longer, trying to knock some memory back into my brain that could help me get out of this situation faster, "I think I've seen my mom use it before when she was painting."

It was a putty knife that she used when she wants to add texture to her oil and acrylic paintings. Though, I was positive that she rarely uses them and the only time I've seen her use them was when Bill was watching her paint in our garage.

"Lastly," he pulls another paper in the brown file and placed it on top of the photo in front of me, "We found some autopsy reports about your sister's case before. And upon studying them, we found that there were bruises on her torso and legs. Do you think that—"

He ceased to be audible to me. The walls that surrounded me in the room began to close in on me as his voice grew softer, lower, then silent. The idea and image of my sister's death cause my throat to get dry and tight. In just a second, it all flashes back to me—the way her body was swinging lifelessly on that ceiling fan as her skin turned pale.

My heart begins to pound faster and louder inside my ribcage, taking the place of the clock's ticking sound as I look at the clock that was hanging on the wall. Everything slows down as my eyesight begins to become obscured by a haze that makes it impossible for me to regain my senses.

In the back of my mind, I could hear a voice beseeching. It brings a bittersweet melody that rings in my ears, and with only one familiar touch of a hand on my shoulder, I reverted back to where my being was presently alive.

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