Officer Miller squints and draws his index finger across his graying beard. “A number of months,” he repeats.
She offers a single nod. “Yes.”
Impatience to get to the damn file already causes me to down a large swallow of my tea, set down the cup, and sit back against the sofa.
“Hmph. Interesting.” He rubs his beard again. “And have you ever received any kind of therapy or treatment for your memory loss?”
Isla’s eyes do a bewildered shift before she shakes her head. “It never occurred to me or my parents that it was serious enough to warrant therapy. It’s just a strange… tic… of sorts. I suppose.”
He cocks his head. “If you blocked out a number of months, that seems pretty serious.”
“Oh.” She wrings her hands again. “Well, after that, there was quite a bit of fallout and… repercussions… that were…” She briefly catches her bottom lip between her teeth. “More pressing and serious.”
Officer Miller squints at her for an extended beat and then sits up straight as he appears to finally switch topics. “Okay. I only needed to ask about that because it may or may not have something to do with this also, but I’m somewhat at a loss. So.” He clasps his hands together and gestures at the file. “First of all, as you can see from this file, this case was more than just a stolen cell phone. All of the information we have is in there, and you’re obviously free to read through it at your leisure, however…” He looks at her with subdued sympathy. “If you don’t remember anything about it, I feel like I should explain it before you simply go digging through the file. Which was why I wanted to meet with you about it in person.” He points at the file. “There’s information in there that you’ll likely find distressing. If this was just about a stolen cell phone, I wouldn’t feel the need to take these unorthodox measures.”
Oh my fucking God, I want to shout, just get to the goddamned file already.
Officer Miller’s extended build-up isn’t doing anything for my stomach-turning nerves about whatever is in the file, and I honestly need him to just rip off the Band-Aid already.
“Okay,” Isla says, folding her hands together and tucking them in her lap. “I’m happy to listen.”
He reaches for the file and opens the cover to reveal an official form full of dark, efficient black script, and then draws his index finger across the top of it. “On Thursday, October 14, 2010, at approximately eleven p.m., a young woman named Elise Rutherford made a 9-1-1 call reporting an incident that took place at a sorority house at Columbia University. She informed the dispatcher that she had attended a party with you, and had been separated from you about halfway through the night.”
Officer Miller pauses briefly as he flips the page, and my brow furrows on its own accord as my mind echoes a snippet from the last phone call I had with Isla.
Elise asked me to go with her to a birthday party for one of the girls in her sorority. It’s at an actual sorority house.
My stomach does another uncomfortable turn as I glance at Isla. She’s merely listening captively with a sober expression.
“Miss Rutherford was preparing to leave and called your cell phone to let you know it was time to go.” Officer Miller glances at the form and then sits up straight, looking at Isla with a gentle expression. “You weren’t answering your phone, so she searched for you in the house. Eventually, she found you in one of the upstairs bedrooms, where you were unconscious in the bed. Your clothing had been removed, and your purse had been rifled through. She called 9-1-1, and you were taken to New York Presbyterian Medical Center, where you were treated for various injuries, including those indicative of sexual assault. A toxicology report confirmed the presence of Rohypnol in your system.”
Isla’s long lashes do a brief, rapid flutter, but she remains otherwise still. I, on the other hand, have to flex every muscle in my body to keep from falling off the damn couch.
Someone fucking roofied and raped my girlfriend at a party, my suddenly-disoriented mind pipes up, even though Isla hasn’t been my girlfriend for eleven years. Even though I’ve hated and resented her for all those eleven years. Even though she betrayed me in the worst imaginable way, because, for the first time in eleven years… I’m not entirely convinced that she did.
My brain is firing off synapses in an attempt to connect everything I already know with what I just heard, but they abruptly go silent as Officer Miller continues.
“It was clear that whoever your attacker was also stole your cell phone, as well as some cash you had in your purse.” He flips another page. “But, at the time, those things were obviously of lesser importance. A sexual assault forensic exam was performed, but they were unable to obtain any DNA. Eventually, you were released from the hospital, and Miss Rutherford took you back to your dorm. I provided you with the case number, but that was the last I heard from you until you contacted me a few weeks ago.” He clears his throat. “So, the reason I was curious about your memory loss was because of the potential after effects of the Rohypnol. It can cause oxygen deprivation and potential brain damage. You never experienced any complications related to that?”
Isla is still sitting stiffly with her eyes glued on the file, and she offers a small shake of her head. “No,” she says quietly.
Officer Miller clears his throat. “Are there any questions I can answer for you?”
She shakes her head again, but says nothing.
I cut a glance at her through slits in my narrowed eyelids, and I can’t believe she doesn’t have more of a reaction to learning what happened to her. I seem to be the only one in the room with any kind of a reaction to it. The information is so jarring that I’m electrified with restlessness to the point that I can’t keep from reaching to place my hand on her back.
“Isla, are you—”
She immediately tenses, and I retract my hand.
Of course she doesn’t want me touching her. Despite the fact that I suddenly can’t separate now from then, on some level I know that we no longer have the kind of relationship in which I do things like comfort her.
Which is fine. I’m still too distracted by all the new information clashing with all the information I had up until this very moment.
“Officer Miller,” I speak up. “If I may?”
He gestures for me to go ahead.
“You’re saying that this incident occurred on October fourteenth of that year?”
He nods. “That’s correct.”
The infamous date flashes in my mind like a neon sign.
October 17, 2010.
I blink. “And…” Bile creeps up my throat, and I swallow. “You said her phone was stolen?”
He nods again, and starts to open his mouth to speak. “Ye—”
“My stolen phone is the only reason I have the case number in the first place,” Isla says, her voice completely vacant and deadpan.
I cough to clear my throat. “Right.”
I glance at her as a high-pitched buzzing sounds from inside my ears. She doesn’t look at me. She merely sits, stoic and stiff, her hands still folded in her lap.
She didn’t have her phone on October seventeenth. You couldn’t get a hold of her for days. Then the messages came through. Then she never answered her phone again.