“We received a report of a possible burglary at this address,” he said, flipping through a notebook. “A Ms. Reed stated that you denied her access to your property and that you may be withholding items that belong to her.”
My mind went blank.
“Robbery?” I managed to say. “This is my apartment. I paid for everything here.”
The second officer, younger, leaned in slightly, as if assessing not only my words but also my weariness.
“Can we come in?” he asked.
I nodded. They both entered, giving the small but tidy space a quick, professional glance. My boxes of books, my framed diploma still wrapped in plastic, my cheap coffee maker. Everything I had built myself.
The tall officer approached the window, raising an eyebrow.
“Interesting,” he murmured.
“What?” I asked.
He gestured down toward the parking lot. A maroon minivan was awkwardly parked, its side door open. Inside, I could make out clear bags… and a figure moving.
The younger officer turned to me.
“Miss Reed… your mother said you left this morning in a state of distress, saying you were going to ‘disappear.’ She also said you left a worrying note.”
“That’s not true,” I replied, feeling a strange tingling at the back of my neck. “I didn’t leave a note.”
The officers exchanged another glance. Something in their expressions changed. They no longer seemed to be looking for a suspect, but rather protecting her from something I still didn’t understand.
“Camila?” the young man said in a different tone. “Your mother also mentioned that she was worried you were… losing your memory.”
They handed me a piece of paper. A crumpled sheet, supposedly found at my mother’s house.
I read it.
The handwriting was incredibly similar to mine.
