“We just have a few more questions,” Cole said.

“I’ve already told you everything I know,” Quincy said.

Freemont gave a sorry shake of his head. “Which is a whole lot of nothing.”

“Listen, we don’t want you to think we’re harassing you,” Cole said. “We just need to make sure we know everything that happened out at that cabin. For the families. Surely, you can understand that.”

Quincy didn’t want to think about all those grieving parents and siblings and friends. Janelle’s mother had visited her in the hospital. Red-eyed and trembling, she begged Quincy to tell her that Janelle hadn’t suffered, that her daughter had felt no pain when she died. “She didn’t feel a thing,” Quincy lied. “I’m sure of it.”

“I understand,” she told Cole. “I want to help. I really do.”

The detective reached into a briefcase at his feet and pulled out a file folder, which he placed on the table. Next came a metallic rectangle—a tape recorder, now set atop the folder.

“We’re going to ask you a few questions,” he said. “If you don’t mind, we’d like to record the conversation.”

Anxiety flickered through Quincy as she stared at the tape recorder. “Sure,” she said, the word emerging in an uneasy wobble.

Cole pressed the record button before saying, “Now tell us, Quincy, to the best of your ability, what you remember about that night.”

“The whole night? Or when Janelle started screaming? Because I don’t remember much after that.”

“The whole night.”

“Well—” Quincy paused, shifting slightly to peer out the window set into the upper half of the door. The door itself had been closed once her mother was asked to wait outside. The window’s square pane revealed only a bit of ivory-colored wall and the corner of a poster warning about the dangers of drunk driving. Quincy couldn’t see her mother. She couldn’t see anyone.

“We know there was drinking,” Freemont said. “And marijuana use.”

“There was,” Quincy admitted. “I didn’t do either.”

“A good girl, eh?” Freemont said.

“Yes.”

“But it was a party,” Cole said.

“Yes.”

“And Joe Hannen was there?”

Quincy flinched at the sound of his name. Her three stab wounds, still stitched tight, began to throb.

“Yes.”

“Did something happen during the party?” Freemont asked. “Something that made him angry? Did anyone tease him? Abuse him? Maybe hurt him in a way that would make him want to lash out?”

“No,” Quincy said.

“Did anything happen that made you angry?”

”No,” Quincy said again, stressing the word, hoping it would make the lie somehow ring true.

“We looked at the results of your sexual assault forensic exam,” Freemont said.

He was referring to the rape kit Quincy endured once her wounds had been stitched up. She didn’t remember much. Only staring at the ceiling and trying to hold back sobs as the nurse calmly talked her through each step.

“It says you had engaged in sexual intercourse that night. Is that true?”

Shame scorched Quincy’s cheeks as she gave a single nod.

“Was it consensual?” Freemont said.

Quincy nodded again, the hot flush spreading to her forehead, her neck.

“Are you sure? It’s OK to tell us if it wasn’t.”

“It was,” Quincy replied. “Consensual, I mean. I wasn’t raped.”

Detective Cole cleared his throat, as eager as Quincy to change the subject. “Let’s move on. Let’s talk about what happened after your friend Janelle came out of the woods and you were stabbed. Are you certain you can’t remember anything that happened after that?”

“Yes.”

“Try,” Cole suggested. “Just for a few minutes.”

Quincy closed her eyes, trying for what felt like the hundredth time that week to conjure even the faintest memory of that missing hour. She took deep breaths, each one straining her stitches. Her head began to hurt. Another headache ballooning in her skull. All she saw was blackness.

“I’m sorry,” she whimpered. “I can’t.”

“Nothing at all?” Freemont said.

“No.” Quincy was trembling now, on the verge of tears. “There’s nothing.”

Freemont crossed his arms and gave her an annoyed huff. Cole simply stared at her, squinting slightly, as if he could see her better that way.

“I’m a little thirsty,” he announced, turning to Freemont. “Hank, could you be a sport and get me a coffee from the vending machine?”

The request seemed to surprise Freemont. “Really?”

“Yes. Please.” Cole looked to Quincy. “Are you allowed to have coffee?”

“I don’t know.”

“We better not risk it,” Cole decided. “Caffeine and those pain meds you’re on might not mix too well, am I right? That wouldn’t be good for you. Sheesh.”

It was the last word that tipped Quincy off. Spoken with such forced cheer, it all but announced that it was nothing more than an act. Cole’s handsome face. Those warm, vaguely sexy smiles. All of it was just a charade.