‌White walls, bright lights, the strong smell of ammonia. “Vitals are fine,” says a voice. There’s a tug on my eye and an even brighter light. “Pupils look fine. There’s nothing physically wrong with him, so I’m thinking post- traumatic stress.”‌

“I’m not surprised,” says another voice. “This is the worst kind of déjà

vu.”

A hand squeezes my shoulder. “Tripp, you’re going to be fine, I

promise, but we’re having trouble reaching your father. Who else can we call?”

I don’t know what they’re talking about, or why they need my dad. But I do know the answer to that question, so I give it.

“No one,” I say. “There’s no one else.”

—

A couple of hours later, I’m sitting in a room at the Sturgis police station with Regina. I’m back to myself enough to know that Brynn called her and she closed the bakery to be here. “You didn’t need to do that,” I said when

Regina told me. “I could have…I should have just asked them to call Lisa Marie.”

“No,” Regina said. She’s always been the biggest supporter of me giving my mother a shot, but even she couldn’t put a positive spin on the suggested Gunnar Fox interview. She patted my hand, which is like a tackle hug for Regina. “Not for this.”

She met me at the hospital, where I was taken along with Mr. Solomon’s body, because apparently I lost my shit when I saw him. I don’t remember that part, though. I don’t remember anything past Brynn’s hand on the banister, and the look on her face when she said, “Oh no.”

Regina says that’s a blessing. “Nobody needs to remember that,” she said when I told her. I’m not going to be much help to my old friend Officer Patz, though, who takes a seat across from us and regards me with something that almost looks like compassion.

“How are you holding up?” he asks. “Fine,” I say automatically.

“You don’t need to talk to me right now,” he says. “We can wait till you feel better, or till your father is able to be present.”

“He’s asleep,” I say. “He won’t be up for hours. It’s fine. I’ll talk to you now. I don’t want to come back.”

Officer Patz looks at Regina. “You think he’s up for this?”

She pats my hand again. “If he says so. But why are the police involved, Steven? I thought poor old Dick fell and hit his head.”

Poor old Dick. Mr. Solomon, the guy who used to grow gigantic flowers and wave to everyone after soccer practice. I know, in theory, that he’s dead, but it hasn’t sunk in yet. It doesn’t feel real.

“He did,” Officer Patz says. “But there may be robbery involved as well. We can’t find his red fishing tackle box. You know the one?” Regina nods; she’s gotten paid out of that tackle box more than once. “Maybe that’s related, maybe it’s not, but we’re going to treat the house as a crime scene until we know more. We’ve talked to Brynn Gallagher, who was very helpful, so I think we have most of what we need. Anything Tripp can add is gravy.”

I haven’t seen Brynn since Mr. Solomon’s house; not consciously, anyway. I know she was at the hospital, but I don’t remember any of that. I feel sick, suddenly, imagining what I must have looked like through her eyes. Way to fall apart in a crisis, Talbot.

But it’s not just shame making me nauseated. It’s not knowing what I might have said while I was out of it. What did I say?

“I don’t know what I said,” I say abruptly, lifting my eyes to meet Officer Patz’s.

He reaches for a pen with too much eagerness. “About what?”

No. I can’t ask him. What the hell was I thinking? “I don’t know what I

saw,” I amend. “I can’t remember.”

“I know. We spoke with the doctor who evaluated you. Your memory may come back at some point, but there’s no reason to push it, especially not today. Let’s just go over your approach and entry to the house, okay? Maybe you noticed something that Brynn missed.”

I do my best, but I can tell from Officer Patz’s resigned expression that I’m not adding anything useful. After a certain point, he stops bothering to take notes and just nods along with my ramblings. “Okay, well, the good news is, Brynn Gallagher has an eye for detail,” he finally says, snapping his notebook shut. “I guess that comes in handy for a student journalist.”

“Former student journalist,” I say.

“Well, but she has that internship,” Officer Patz says.

“What internship?” I ask. I glance at Regina, who looks equally puzzled.

“With Motive,” Officer Patz says. “You know, the true-crime show? She told us all about it during our interview. Interesting, because we’ve been talking with one of their producers about—” He breaks off then, frowning as he takes me in. “You didn’t know that?”

“No,” I say, my hands curling in my lap so tightly that my knuckles turn white. “I didn’t know that.”