“Last name?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who is she to you?”
“No one.” And that was the damning truth. She was no one to me and meant nothing.
At the hospital, Lilah’s parents greeted me with an embrace, loving me like a son because they didn’t yet know I was to blame. They didn’t know I was the Judas who caused this.
Lilah’s mother wailed in my arms, and moisture shone in her stoic father’s eyes. I didn’t cry. The guilt and fear were like a dam holding back the tears. I told my parents not to come. I couldn’t deal with their chaotic drama.
The police came to question me again, taking me to a private area. Gemma was conscious and talking.
“When did you meet Gemma Kershaw?”
“In January,” I said on autopilot, floating outside of myself.
“Where?”
“At the Doubleday Inn in Minneapolis.”
“What were you doing there?”
“The snowstorm canceled my connecting flight, and I stayed over.”
“What was Ms. Kershaw doing there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you have sex with her?”
“Yes.” I felt sick.
“Did you see her again?”
“No.”
“Did she ever contact you before tonight?”
“No.”
“How did she get your address?”
“I don’t know. My driver’s license was in my wallet on the dresser.”Stupid and careless.
“She said she’s your girlfriend, your soul mate, to be exact.”
“She’s distorted the encounter.” I told them about the scene at the hotel the morning after. “She said she’d make me sorry…that I wouldn’t get away with hurting her.”
“Did you report it to the police?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t take it seriously. I assumed she was angry and would get over it.”
“Did you tell anyone?”
