See You in San Francisco

09 | the thing about guilt

          That was rude. Even though I hadn't lived in the dorms for over a month and a half, Stanford was still my territory, not theirs, and they shouldn't have the authority to tell me to sit down. However, I obeyed like a well-behaved puppy, knowing any wrong moves or words could screw me over in case they already thought I was guilty—which I knew I was, but not directly so. Regardless of how wrong and stupid my decisions from that night had been, I knew I hadn't physically hurt or killed my own sister.

          My parents and I had been the lucky ones who got to know the cause of death. According to the autopsy report—and we were still waiting for the toxicology results, because there were things not even my parents' money could buy—she had hit her head somewhere, hard enough to snap her neck when she hit the ground. They knew that from the dent in her skull and knew she hadn't been hit thanks to the direction of the blood splatters, or whatever.

          They just didn't know whether she had slipped and fallen on her own or if someone had shoved her—purposefully or by accident. To make things harder for everyone who needed and wanted to figure out the truth, there were no surveillance cameras inside that motel room and, considering it had rained, any tire tracks or footprints had been washed away and the cameras outside hadn't been of much help, either.

          That meant all they could do for now was talk to people. I wasn't thrilled, even though part of me knew I should be glad they had made some progress so far. It didn't make me any less furious; in fact, I was even more aware of my own powerlessness, overpowered by that persistent feeling that I could have done more—that I could be doing more right now.

          If it had been an accident, something would have driven her to go to that motel, upset enough to call me. If someone else had shoved her—and my blood boiled in my veins just by thinking of that possibility—maybe I could have prevented it from happening by picking up the damn phone. If someone had killed my sister, I—

          "As you already know, we're trying to figure out what exactly happened to your sister on the night she died," the male deputy, Deputy Joffrey, began, interrupting my inner monologue, and I crossed the room back towards the couches, feeling as though I was floating. My feet took an eternity to reach the floor with each step I took, like I was staggering across heavy snow. "We're hoping the testimonies from the people who were closest to her can help us piece together an explanation."

          My bones hurt.

          My lungs struggled to fill with oxygen, the air sticky in my airways like petrol, and bile rose its way up my throat—and I knew it wasn't just because of the alcohol.

          Gravity pulled me down to an armchair (we all curiously avoided the wettest one, which was the one where I had been sitting when Natasha ever so kindly poured down her entire beer all over me). "Sure. Ask whatever it is you need to ask me." Then, stupidly, I added, "I'm an open book."

          The woman, Deputy Clare, quirked an eyebrow. "Good. That's the type of people we prefer." She pulled out a small notebook and a pen, but I saw no recording devices, not even a cellphone. "Where were you on the night Juniper died?"

          "At home," I replied, "studying."

          "Can anyone confirm your alibi?"

          "My parents were downstairs." My tone sounded overly defensive, even to me, but I knew my answer was too simple, too obvious, only being surpassed by 'I was asleep'. "I could hear the TV and their voices," I added, just in case they suddenly thought I was pitting it on them, out of all people.

          She nodded and wrote it down. "I see. Had you noticed anything . . . strange, out of the ordinary? Was June acting any differently?"

          I was pretty sure that was a trick question. Lying to cover my own ass and God knows whose else's would make me look negligent, which I was, and wouldn't give them the answers they needed, but they wouldn't look into me. Even though I didn't have anything to hide—I had been fully honest during my first statement and was going to do the exact same thing now—I wasn't sure why I was hesitating.