Page 21 of The Golden Hour

He fumbles for the phone.

Showtime.

* * *

“And you don’t remember anything else about your abduction or the following weeks in which you were held captive?”

The shrewd eyes of Detective Francis Wilson narrow on my face as she looks up from her notepad.

She’s skeptical of my story. Any decent detective would be. But I spent most of the drive crafting it, repeating it, and embracing it, that when it comes out, it feels true.

Another life lesson courtesy of my family—if your lie is close to the truth, all it takes for people to believe it is for you to believe it.

“No, I don’t,” I tell her. “All I remember is waking up in a field one day with blood all over me and no idea how I got there. Or who I was.”

“Tell me again why didn’t you go to the police? Or a hospital?”

“I was terrified, Detective. In shock. All I knew was that someone was looking for me and I needed to run. I swear to you, I didn’t remember anything until a few months ago. It started with dreams, then flashes of memories and faces. Yesterday I woke up and remembered who I was. I came straight here.”

The tears welling in my eyes are real, because the last words, at least, are true.

She leans back in her chair with a sigh and closes the notepad. “Callisto—”

“Call me Calli.”

“Calli, I’ll be frank. I don’t think you’re telling me the whole truth. You’ve been through a harrowing experience, and I understand it might be difficult to talk about. I’d like to get you checked out by a doctor, and potentially meet with a—”

The door of the interview room rattles as someone pounds on it. Before Detective Wilson is halfway out of her chair, it opens. I stand just as a man in a custom suit strolls inside.

I recognize him immediately.

“This interview is over,” snaps Hugo Barnes, longtime lawyer for my family. His flat gray eyes land on me. There’s no emotion in them; not because he isn’t shocked to see me, which he likely is, but because he’s paid handsomely to remain stoic during all manner of crises.

Behind Hugo stands another detective. He shakes his head at Detective Wilson, whose pinched expression tells me she’s gearing up for a fight.

“Calli, good to see you,” croons Hugo. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be here sooner to spare you this indignity. Come with me, please.”

Detective Wilson stares at him with contempt. “Calli is the victim of a crime, Mr. Barnes. She walked into the building of her own accord, and it’s our job to find out what happened to her so her abductor can be brought to justice. I can’t do that without—”

“Yes, yes,” interrupts Hugo in a bored tone. “You have my assurances that she’ll be entirely forthcoming with any ongoing investigation. At this time, however, it is the wishes of my client’s family that she be brought home immediately.” His voice lowers, edged with ice. “Or do you want to explain to your superiors—and every news outlet in the country—why you’re preventing the decade’s most anticipated homecoming?”

The other detective rolls his eyes. Wilson glances at me, her gaze probing. “Do you want to leave with this man, Calli?” she asks softly, a thread of steel in her voice.

She knows.

Somehow, this woman knows, or suspects, that the Avellinos aren’t the shining example of goodness they pretend to be. Perhaps she wonders if they might have had something to do with my abduction themselves.

For a moment, I consider staying and telling her everything. The actual truth. Why I ran and what I’m afraid of. But without any real evidence to give her, I might as well tie nooses around both our necks.

“Yes, I’d like to go home,” I say in the firmest tone I can manage. “I want to see my sisters and stepmom.”

She scans my face for another moment.

“Are we done?” asks Hugo.

The other detective says, “You’re free to go, Ms. Avellino.”

Wilson tries one more time. “She needs to see a doctor. We’d like to compare past and present medical records.”

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