CHAPTER 5

November 21

Ana

"Thanks for being so cooperative, Ana. I know this wasn't easy for you."

I glance up at Ben standing in front of me.

Your little sister was murdered, and you're doing nothing. Don't you care about her?

"What you said to me yesterday," I begin.

"Yeah, about that." He rubs at the back of his neck and looks chagrined. "I'm sorry.

It was uncalled for. And insensitive. This case," he gestures around the little video-

monitored interview room I'm sitting in, "hits a little close to home for me. I

misplaced my frustration on you and it wasn't fair. I'm sorry."

I sit back in my metal folding chair and consider him as he says this. Did these

people take away everyone he loved too?

"You're right." His expression changes from guilty to interested. I frown at him.

"You were an insensitive jerk."

He deflates slightly.

"But you weren't wrong either. I've been asking myself the same question for

months."

"Then what changed?"

I take several moments to think about this. What did change? This morning I was

curled up in bed refusing to eat, speak, or bathe, and now I'm fed, clean, and I've

answered more questions in one sitting than I think I've ever answered in my life.

And more importantly, I finally did it. I finally told them everything about what

happened that night. I didn't have a panic attack and die, though it seemed like a

very possible outcome of this afternoon. I didn't dissolve into tears and wracking

sobs, though tears were brimming through most of it and a catch in my throat

constantly threatened to close up my airway. I did it. This big thing that I've been

afraid of doing for over a year now.

I found out today that Ben rescued me on November 17th, exactly one year after

the night that changed my life forever. It's almost hysterically ironic, in some sick

twisted sense. It makes me feel like laughing one of those laughs that sounds

borderline crazy before it morphs into crying.

I even identified the men who killed my family. I looked at the faces that haunted my

dreams for a year and didn't cry. I just felt anger.

"I was pissed," I tell Ben. "I was really, really pissed."

He seems like he's waiting for further explanation. I'm not going to give any.

Because it's more than that. Sure, blinding rage gave me enough adrenaline to pick

myself up and get going, but it's what kept me going today that really made all the

difference. And that's knowing that Ryan died for me. And that he believed in me.

And that he loved me. I made a promise to the piece of Ryan I'll keep with me

forever, in my memory, that I wouldn't let his sacrifice be for nothing. I can't break

this final promise.

Of course, I'm not telling Ben about that.

"Ready to get back at it?" asks the detective walking back into the room.

"Are you good to keep answering questions, Ana?" Ben says.

"I don't know what else you could possibly ask," I say. "We've been over everything

at least twice."

"See, but we haven't." He sits down in the chair across the little table from me. "You

haven't said a word about your whereabouts from March to November."

I clench my teeth and look over Ben.

"She's refusing to speak about that."

The detective turns to him. "And why is that?"

"She says it's not relevant."

"Not relevant? We'll see about that. Let's start with the helicopter crash. How did

you get away?"

"I don't know."

The detective gives me a look that says he doesn't believe me.

"It's the truth. I remember getting on the helicopter, taking off, flying over a lot of

snow and trees, but then my memory just ends."

"Until four days ago?" the detective asks in a derisive tone.

"No, until about a week after that when I woke up. I almost died of hypothermia." I

cock my head and feign serious consideration. "Can I sue you guys for getting me

abandoned in the wilderness in winter? Should I be talking to a lawyer now instead

of you?"

Unfazed by my tactics, the detective looks down at me with a smile. "You want to

make yourself look guilty by lawyering up? Go ahead."

Ben interrupts. "Sir, may I speak with you outside for a moment?"

The other man glares at Ben, but both leave the room. Ben offers me a comforting

smile on the way out. I can't work up the effort to return it, though I am grateful that

he finally seems to be on my side. I wonder if that other guy is his boss. I can only

just barely hear their muffled voices through the door. I think Ben is getting chewed

out.

The door opens and both men return. The detective's determined expression is

unchanged, but Ben is suddenly looking unsure.

"As I was saying, Miss Clarence, casting additional suspicion on yourself by insisting

on a lawyer may not be the wisest decision for you at this time."

These words take a moment to sink in.

"Wait, what? What do you mean, 'additional suspicion?' You think I-" I choke on the

words. "You think I had something to do with my family's deaths?"

"In all this, you've been very quiet about the very object this whole case seems to

hinge upon."

I only stare at him in horror.

"During the first several months of this investigation, we were at a loss to define the

true motive for this tragedy. While the media chalked it up to senseless gang

violence, there was obviously a key piece of the puzzle missing. You refused to

provide any details and subsequently vanished. Around that time, we started looking

into your mother's dealings in her banking career and found something odd.

I turn to gape at Ben too, but he avoids eye contact.

"Your mother seems to have discovered almost five million dollars. The exact

amount of stolen federal taxpayer money we've been trying to pin on this crime

syndicate for the past three years. But instead of contacting the authorities, your

mother hid the money. So well, in fact, that after months of searching, we still

haven't been able to find it. It seems whatever she was being paid to funnel money

to these criminals just wasn't enough for her."

He narrows his eyes at me.

"We had evidence that strongly suggested you had not been killed or kidnapped in

the helicopter crash. The longer you were missing, the more likely it seemed that

you had found the money your mother stole and were living comfortably in hiding.

Until the gang your mother double-crossed found you and brought you back here.

How much of their money have you kept hidden? Certainly enough that they needed

you alive to recover the rest."

I brace my hands on both sides of my face, tears streaming from my eyes. "Stop.

Just stop."

"When did you find the money your mother hid? Was the helicopter crash staged by

you as a clean exit? Was your greed the reason Agent Stevens's wife lost her

husband in that crash you claim you can't remember?"

I cover my face with my hands and sob. Hearing someone say such horrible things

about Mama is soul-destroying. There's no way any of this could be true. I hear Ben

saying something quietly. A moment later, the interview room door is slammed

shut.

I look up and see only Ben is left in the room with me. I scrub my tears from my

face and try to regulate my breathing enough to speak again.

"Is he right? Have you been living on the money your mother hid?"

"No!" I want to scream the word, but settle for a harsh whisper, all I can manage

from my constricting throat. "I don't know anything about the money. All I know is

they kept asking for it and asking for it. Then they killed my family. When they found

me again, they asked for it and asked for it again, and then they killed-" I stop, my

voice breaking before I say Ryan's name.

"And once they brought me back here, they never stopped asking for it. I tried to

give them everything I could - the life insurance policies, their retirement funds,

everything my parents left to me - but it was never enough. They just kept asking

for more and more, and beating me when I had nothing left. I have nothing. Every

penny I had is theirs now. I don't even have enough money for a cup of coffee."

I look at him again and this time he doesn't avert his gaze. "You have to believe

me," I say, desperate.

"I think I do," he says slowly. "But you have to admit, his interpretation of events

does seem plausible."

"No, it doesn't! There's no way my mom stole money from a gang, or from the

federal government. She would never do that."

"You said yourself during your statement that the men who broke into your house

accused her of taking their money."

"The night they killed her, they asked her where some money was. She said she

didn't take it. They had a gun on my baby sister, asking her what she did with the

money. My sister's life was worth more to my mom than millions of dollars. When

she couldn't give them the answer they wanted, they killed my baby sister. There's

no way my mother would put her family in danger like that or sacrifice her daughter

for cash. She seemed confused at first, like she didn't even know what they were

talking about.

"And there's no way my mother would associate with a criminal group like that. She

lost her two younger brothers to a street gang. My whole family hates organized

crime. And she got where she is today-" I choke over those words. "She got where

she was in her career because she was hardworking and trust-worthy. She had

clients willing to put their entire fortunes in her hands. Ask anyone who worked with

Mama. She was a saint."

"Then why didn't she report the stolen money she found?"

"I - I don't know," I say, wrapping my arms around myself. Why wouldn't Mama

report something like that? She'd always encouraged me to speak up when I saw

something wrong happening. That memory in particular tortured me for months,

knowing Mama would have wanted me to talk to the police when I couldn't.

I must have been lost in thought longer than I realized, because Ben raps his

knuckles on the table and asks if I heard him.

"What?" I ask, unaware he'd said anything in the first place.

"I asked why you don't just tell us where you've been all this time. If we can find

something to corroborate your story, they'll be more inclined to believe you."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because it involves someone else."

"Great! They can testify that everything you've said is true."

"He can't."

"Can't or won't?"

I clench my jaw.

"Come on, Ana, I'm sure when you explain this situation to him, he'll be willing to

help you. If he's in danger too, we can protect him as well. If he's gotten some

trouble with the law-"

I stand up, knocking my chair over.

"He's dead. They killed him the day they dragged me back here."

Ben sits back in his chair, looking frustrated. "Well, was there anyone who knew you

were there, or he was there?"

Ryan's brother's face pops up into my mind. Then Saph's face. I have a feeling she

might try to use this situation to get back at me for that phone call if I gave her the

opportunity. I'm not about to drag either of them into this.

"There was no one else."

"No one? Really? For almost seven straight months, not a single person aside from

this guy knew where you were, or interacted with you, or saw you? Where on Earth

were you?"

Suddenly I remember Dirk, that ice road trucker who gave me a lift to Fairbanks. I

didn't tell him who I was, who Ryan was, where we lived, or really much of anything.

He might not know enough to help me, but he could back me up about being

penniless, pitiful, and desperate.

I pick up my chair and sit back down in it. "There might be someone. But I don't

know how to contact him. I lost his business card."

Ben leans forward, prompting me to continue.

"I hitchhiked to Fairbanks last month. The trucker who gave me a ride probably

remembers me."

"Fairbanks? Did you stay in Alaska this whole time? Why?"

"If you were being hunted down by the people who killed your family and you had no

money, no ID, no way to travel anywhere, wouldn't you hide if you found somewhere

safe?"

"So let me get this straight - the helicopter crashed, someone rescued you, you

stayed with them until you were discovered again, this unnamed person was killed,

and you were brought back to Phoenix?"

"Yes," I say, not liking how much of my story Ben is piecing together.

"Then where does the hitchhiking fit in with this story?"

My voice grows quieter as I remember the emotional ordeal of Ryan's illness and my

rescue attempt. All to lose him just a week later to a completely different murderer.

"He was injured during a blizzard and got sick. I had to get a doctor to come save

him."

"So you hitchhiked across Alaska?" Ben sounds surprised. "Alone? In a blizzard?"

I look up at him and remember my desperation bordering on insanity. "He was

dying."

"How long after that were you kidnapped?"

"A week."

Ben sits back and I can see in his expression that his brain is working.

"Someone saw you in Fairbanks then?"

"What?"

"When you were in Fairbanks, someone saw you and word got back to the crime

syndicate. That's how they found you, right?"

I stare at him, horrified.

"You said you were there for six months and no one came for you. Then you venture

out and a week later they find you. That can't be a coincidence."

I can actually feel the blood draining from my face as my nose and eyes begin to

sting painfully. He's right. This was my fault. The reason Ryan is lying dead in a

cabin thousands of miles away from me is because I tipped them off. It's my fault Ryan is dead.

I dissolve into sobs again.