Chapter 11: Chapter 11

“I’ll get it.” A voice like spun silk, soft and mellifluous.

Irene Trinket swoops up from the couch and heads to the front door, lifting her glasses to her head. She swings the door open to see Detective Russo on the other side, wearing a rigid smile.

“Mark.” She looks down, pulling a thin cardigan close to cover herself. “I’m sorry. I—”

“No, please, my apologies. I’m the one intruding.”

“No.” She flaps a dramatic hand. “I told you when you asked to see Mia that I want to assist however I can.”

Jokingly, she adds, “Didn’t think you’d exploit the offer so quickly.”

The teasing goes right over the detective’s head. “Time is pressing.”

Suddenly serious, she nods and sweeps aside. “Of course, please. Come in.”

Russo nods and enters the premises, his eyes surveying the area that bears the aesthetic of a woodland cottage except much larger with contemporary themes.

The fragrance of the cabin-styled interior has underlying notes of sandalwood, cedar, and vanilla. The combination of wood with decorative plaster enhances the external qualities of both materials.

A smooth board on the ceiling harmonizes with the textured surface. The wild stone in the house’s interior from the bar adds fresh notes to the space.

The open concept also carries through with no physical barrier between living, dining, and kitchen spaces.

“Mia likes to sleep through the morning on weekends.”

Russo checks his watch. “It’s after twelve?”

Irene bops her head to both sides. “It’s like I said, she likes to sleep through the morning.”

She spins around to gesture to the living room behind her. “Wait over there—sorry about the mess—and I’ll go get Mia.”

Old curiosity flickers to life. “Though I am curious. I obtained your permission to speak to Mia regarding Keila’s disappearance. However, when I spoke to Mia initially, she was surprised to hear of it.”

An indistinct look flashes across her face. “I thought it best if it came from you.”

Russo doesn’t understand why. Nevertheless, he gives a solemn nod.

She mirrors his serious nod. “Why the house call, detective? I’ve watched enough ~Law and Order~ to know that most people get questioned at the precinct.”

“If they’re suspects,” he tweaks. “This isn’t a formal interrogation, as I specified, just a friendly visit.”

Irene nods, arms folded to keep her cardigan close. “So you’re not here in any official capacity and this won’t lead to an inquisition that will one day, in consequence, force Mia to go to trial?

“Because if that’s the case, you should run now.”

Russo exposes his palms to her. “No, I simply have a working theory that I want to explore. I think to understand the present, I need to understand the past.”

Irene examines him, giving him a lengthy, speculative look.

“Wait here, Detective.” She narrows her eyes at him playfully before scaling the wooden steps.

Detective Russo takes this time to investigate, going to the array of family photos positioned on a stand under the TV that’s mounted on the wall.

His eyes give each picture a thorough scan. Peculiar. All of them are family photos, baby Mia and toddler Mia entangled around her father, even some couple photoshoots with him and Irene entwined.

Detective Russo has a file on everyone involved along with their families. Promptly after Mia’s father left the picture, Irene changed her and her daughter’s surname to her maiden name.

Russo had assumed they divorced, but by the collection of beloved memories that sit on a pedestal, he realizes it’s unlikely.

A clamor and thudding footsteps warn him of incoming.

Russo retreats and swiftly occupies a random armchair like he’s been waiting this entire time.

They descend, arguing, Irene gesticulating in frustration and Mia talking back.

“Answer back again. I dare you, and I’ll beat you in front of Detective Russo.”

Mia shrugs carelessly. “Then you’ll get arrested for domestic abuse.”

“Happily.”

Irene swats the back of Mia’s head so hard the girl stumbles forward with a gasp.

Mia’s bulging eyes shoot to Russo, but he looks away like he didn’t see anything.

“Wise man,” Irene says with a triumphant smile.

Mia drags herself over to the living room, dressed in loungewear, a cream long-sleeved jersey with matching shorts.

She dumps herself on the long couch adjacent to him, leaning against the arm, lifting her legs to cross them on the cushion.

“Detective, you want some coffee?”

“Milk, two sugars, please.”

Irene throws a thumbs-up and goes to the kitchen.

Mia gives Russo a scathing full-body scan, her dark eyes sizing him up. His whiskey-brown, deep-set eyes are fringed with thick lashes. His gaze is locked on her, so fixated, not daring to look anywhere else.

Russo finds her current state of tranquility interesting, so different from the last time they spoke.

Her hair is left loose, sienna-brown strands framing high cheekbones with a generous smattering of faint freckles across her nose from cheek to cheek.

The kettle blows out a long, continuous whistle.

“Well…this is a surprise.”

“Good.” He lays both hands on the arms of the chair as if claiming power. “There’s a certain authenticity when one is in their home. When they feel no one is watching. And when they are unprepared. As you are now.”

Mia inches upward as if taking offense at that.

“When we met in my office, you were so unnerved. Human physiology is an incredible thing. We may lie, but our bodies will betray our truth in some form of quirk or tick that we have no control over.

“By your body language alone, it was clear that you knew more than what you were saying.”

Mia’s spine snaps straight. “You had told me that an old friend of mine had gone missing. Would you not be distressed, too? I think my reaction was appropriate. Doesn’t mean I’m complicit.”

“I never said you were.” A rare smile burgeons on his face, neither delight nor humor but a dark fascination. “Though you are forever defensive.

“My presence here does not mean in any shape or form that I believe you are complicit.”

“Then why are you here?”

“It’s my job to investigate every angle, Miss Trinket.”

She goes poker-faced. “And what angle are you investigating with me?”

“Frankly, I hold a staunch belief that you do know something, whether subconsciously or not,” he says matter-of-factly. He settles back into his chair with a sense of achievement as if he has checkmated her.

“You and the others saw what happened to Erin. That trauma—those memories—are never far gone, only suppressed by the mind.”

A ripple of irritation flickers through her, but she hides it well behind a stoic face, revealing nothing with practiced ease. She has been here so many times before.

Police. Detectives. Any form of law enforcement or someone wanting to examine her psychologically. Mia had to learn from a young age that she cannot turn off her emotions, but she can keep people from seeing them.

When she’s afraid, she must be the only one that knows it.

The kettle’s whistle grows into a sharp-pitched shrill.

“The amygdala in the brain is responsible for encoding emotional experiences as unconscious memories. These can affect our thoughts and behavior.

“Repressed trauma ostensibly exacts a serious mental and physical toll, manifesting itself psychologically and somatically in an array of symptoms.”

“Let me stop you there, Detective,” she says, firm and fierce. “I’ve been evaluated by ~actual ~psychiatrists before. I’ve been there and done that.

“How about you be blunt as to what exactly you want to know? Because if you came here to ask the most asked question in Braidwood’s history, I’m afraid you’ve made a wasted trip.”

Russo notes the change, the edge of her voice sharpened; smoky and low by nature, but something new refining it. An indistinct emotion hones her voice like a whetstone does with a blade.

Irene wafts by with a tray of coffee, along with a saucer of packaged biscuits.

Russo inhales, drawing in the freshly brewed, nutty aroma.

“Since I’m the only one still in pajamas. I’m going to go up for a shower,” Irene says, sharing a glance with both of them. “I trust you guys will be fine for a few minutes?”

Russo and Mia never break eye contact.

“Perfectly,” Mia says dryly.

Irene bops her head and makes her way upstairs, taking the tension with her.

With a measure of liberty, he says, “Did you and your old friend group like to play in the woods as kids?”

“Many kids did.” Calm and steady.

“Yes or no.”

“Yes,” she says with an audible sigh.

Deliberating, his eyes wander thoughtfully.

“What did you like about the woods?”

Mia shifts, fumbling with her arm placement.

“Who doesn’t like nature?”

“Many people. Why are you deflecting?”

Mia has to think on her answer as if fishing for reasons.

“The woods are peaceful and fun. We’d make up stories, do stupid roleplay games about princesses, princes, and dragons.”

His expression dulls into a somber look.

“I’m going to ask you a litany of questions, then I’m going to leave,” he says, giving a false impression of simplicity.

Mia straightens with faux excitement, eyes hollow, expression dark.

“Shoot.”

“To do this, I need you to close your eyes for me.”

A line forms between her brows.

“Why?”

“A trauma-focused cognitive behavioral technique.

“Often, memories remain repressed because you are not stable or don’t feel safe enough to remember them. A sort of instinctual coping mechanism the brain uses to preserve your mental health.”

The dread in her eyes is all he needs to see.

And Mia knows he can see it, so to make him doubt his qualms, she closes her eyes.

“Breathe in and breathe out for me.”

Mia complies, doing the breathing exercise grudgingly.

“Lengthen your exhale.”

“What?” she snaps with her eyes still closed.

“Exhaling is linked to the parasympathetic nervous system, which influences our body’s ability to relax and calm down.

“Before you take a big, deep breath, try a thorough exhale instead. Push all the air out of your lungs. Next, try spending a little bit longer exhaling than you do inhaling.”

Russo makes her do that long enough to see visible relaxation without exceeding her patience.

“Recall to me your strongest core memory of Erin: sight, smell, sound. What do you see?”

Mia allows her breaths to wash over like waves, her mind inundating her with a distant memory brought forth.

“Aries’s birthday.”

“Why?”

A laugh staggers out of her mouth. “Aries hid his birthday from us since we first met him. Erin finally found out from a teacher after telling him her intention of throwing him a surprise birthday party.”

“And how did it go?”

Mia’s head tilts to the side, lips tightening for a moment.

“He stormed out and didn’t speak to us for a week. Erin felt guilty since it was her plan. Then she threw him an ~anti~-birthday party a while later and had her mom buy all of his favorite food and sweets.”

Russo cannot see the importance of that occurrence tying her to Erin.

“Why is it significant to you?”

“It showed me and the others how much Erin cared, how much she observed, even at that age.”

The crease above the bridge of her nose deepens as she concentrates.

“It was late autumn, on the brink of winter. It was so cold that day, but none of us cared. I can still smell those cheesy, greasy, gourmet hotdogs with caramelized onions and guacamole.”

She snorts a laugh.

“What, what’s funny?”

“Opal had two of them where even Mr. Mizrahi was full after one. Most of us couldn’t even finish that one because it was ~huge~. Opal’s mom was really strict about what she ate. Despite her being twiggy then and now.”

“And what is your favorite group memory?”

Mia tucks her lips to the side in thought.

After a while, she says, “The first time we hung out together by the Great Oak at the back of the field in middle school.”

“You all differ vastly from each other now. What brought you together, then?”

“Our common denominator was Erin. She made friends with us individually and in time brought us together. Aries was the most miraculous addition since everyone feared him and he had a ‘look at me and I’ll kill you’ vibe.”

“So, she was like the leader of the group?”

Mia’s brows quirk, eyes still closed. “Premature. But where she went, we were never far behind.”

“Can that be said about your jaunts into the woods? Did she lead you there?”

Mia’s eyes peel open, pupils dilated.

“It was a collective decision.” Her eyes narrow for a split second. “Can’t remember whose idea it was.”

Russo captures this moment in his mind; she’s lying.

“Did Erin have other friends she hung out with besides you and the others?”

“They faded away after we got together.”

“So she had no other friends outside the group? Any external companions?”

An uncanny doubt delays her response.

“No.”

“Did Erin or any other members make any new friends? Perhaps meeting up in the woods to play?”

A vein pops out in her forehead.

“No.”

“That night, you told the on-scene officer that you killed Erin. Do you remember that?”

Mia flinches, lashed by the hot whip of panic, her pulse stuttering.

“Do you remember that?” he repeats without mercy.

Before, the children were questioned with delicacy because they were young and frail of mind. But now they are no longer children, therefore that estimate of gentleness is no longer required.

“Do you remember that?”

Mia’s eyes flick up, blinking rapidly.

“Do you remember that?”

She twitches as if assaulted by the question.

Mia swallows her fear, securing her voice.

“Vaguely.”

“Let me refresh your memory, then. You and the others limped out of the woods, caked in dirt, battered, and wounded. The only words of note you said about the ordeal is that you, Mia Trinket, killed Erin Lockwood.”

Her eyes batter erratically like she’s malfunctioning. She tries to hold steady, failing quickly.

“That’s obviously absurd.”

“You said it.”

“~I was in shock~,” she snaps, leaning forward, seething. “Delirious, disoriented. I was just a kid.”

“You said those words for a reason. Something happened in those woods. I do not think you killed her by hand, but you played a role in it—even if it was just to watch helplessly.”

Tears sear behind her eyes, forcing their way out as her jaw trembles, clamped, caging in a cry.

“I do not buy into this ‘I-was-a-child’ charade. You saw and you know exactly what happened to Erin.”

Terror overtakes her face. “No—”

“You saw,” his volume spikes, “and said nothing. For years, you did nothing like her life meant ~nothing~ to you.”

“~That’s a lie,~” she barks. She cannot give free rein to her emotion.

~Calm yourself~, her mind reprimands. Despite it, rational thinking is overturned by an emotion, a feeling, a strangling sensation surging through her, building up like pressure in a volcano.

“Is it?” His intensity is mounting to its peak. “You all played in the woods together. Erin went off on her own. You must’ve known somehow to have followed her out there, but only you and the others managed to escape.

“All of you were injured, but your wounds were inconsistent. Battered but not beaten, bleeding but not impaled. Nothing of that night makes sense medically or logically. You know what happened.”

Mia blasts to her feet.

“I know ~nothing~.”

She is hit by a barrage of hot flashes.

“We’re done here. ~Get out.~”

She whips around and her footsteps scorch the floorboards.

“Is that the last thing Erin said to you before she was gone? ~Get out.~ Escape.”

A memory nails her down to the ground, unable to move.

He observes her with morbid satisfaction, staring back at her with the barest of smiles.

“And you all did. You escaped, abandoning her to death. That is what happened to Erin.~ You left her~.”

An electric jolt, pins and needles seeping into her skin. Overawed, she collapses to the ground. Horror wipes the smile from his face.

He races to her and drops to his knees. His eyes widen. Shudders rack her body, sudden and uncontrolled jerky movements ramp up into a full-blown seizure, leaving her to flounder chaotically on the floor.

“Irene!” he roars.

Promptly, Irene stumbles down to spot her daughter convulsing wildly.

She disappears back up the staircase.

“What are you doing? ~Irene!~”

Russo reaches for Mia, his hands hovering above her face, shell-shocked. He counters the impulse to touch her. He mutes his screaming thoughts, only giving voice to reason.

He finally touches her gingerly and turns her on her side to help keep her airways clear. Irene reappears with a vial and syringe, focused and unfazed like she’s seen this before.

She drops down and uses the plunger to withdraw the liquid from the vial. Her drenched hair is dripping water everywhere with every turn of her head, dark hair turned black.

“What’s happening to her?”

“It’s just a seizure.”

Irene turns Mia’s arm upward, flicks the syringe, then inserts the needle into her vein, injecting her with something unknown to him. Irene sets aside the syringe and vial and plops down on her side, breathing raggedly.

“I never knew she suffered from seizures.”

“Hardly ever,” she says breathlessly. “They rarely come. Her former psychiatrist diagnosed her, she said anxiety and stress can trigger PNES, which are also known as pseudo seizures.”

She snaps an accusing glare at him. “A brief period of uncontrolled electrical activity in the brain.”

Russo nearly wilts under her scalding glare.

“What did you say to her?”

“I think your immediate concern should taking her to the hospital.”

“Not necessary,” she says dismissively. “She’s been sedated, and I have her medication.”

“Okay, I’ll take her to her room.”

He reaches for her—she cuts down her arm in front of him.

“I can handle this.”

“I’m sure you can.” Russo manufactures remorse. “It’s the least I can do.”

She clenches her jaw and steps aside.

Russo bends down to scoop Mia into his arms. Her loose hair swishes as he walks. Irene directs him upstairs from behind, leaving a trail of water droplets in her wake.

When they reach the top floor, she leads him to Mia’s bedroom, and she opens the door for them.

Russo moves to lay the girl down on top of her double bed. He steals a glimpse of the interior before Irene ushers him out and they make their way back downstairs.

“My deepest apologies, Irene. I didn’t mean to push her that hard.”

Something in her has withered, her eyes bedimmed, her usual benign cheerfulness is gone and forgotten.

“I think it is time you are well on your way, Detective.”