Part one
Thank you to everyone who took the time to comment on my post yesterday. I have some updates, and maybe you can help me figure out where to go from here.
After leaving the motel, I headed to the local library. I rented a study room and used my laptop and the Wi-Fi there to answer questions and keep myself informed. After a couple hours, I called the police.
They told me they couldn’t search the storage unit without a warrant, but that they’d get one. Then I pitched my phone, withdrew everything I could from the credit cards, and ditched those too. I went to a store and bought a cheap burner phone, and I got a bus ticket. I took a bus to another town, where I paid cash to stay at another motel. I then called the police to tell them more.
Several of you said that you think I’m Katrina, and that Adrian killed Grace. So I told the police that. I told them everything I knew and begged them to help, and they assured me they would. They said they were on their way to come pick me up, and that I would be able to do go to the station so they could find me a safe place to stay.
I waited a couple hours, and finally the police showed up. Two officers - a man and a woman - introduced themselves and asked me to join them in their car. I obliged, thankful to finally have some help. They drove me the hour-long drive to the station, and then we went into a room.
They asked me a lot of questions. I told them that I believe my real name is Katrina and that I believe I am a kidnapping victim. They asked me about the storage unit, and I told them everything I saw.
That’s when things took a turn for the worse.
“Grace, the storage unit only had a couple of bicycles in it,” one of the officers said gently. “Are you sure you weren’t just imagining everything else you saw? With a traumatic brain injury, you can certainly have some hallucinations or incorrect thoughts.”
“No. No! I know what I saw. There was blood and weapons and - I’m TELLING you. I know what I saw.” I argued with them, begging them to see it my way, but they continued to question what I told them.
“Grace, you said that Adrian might have lied about the hit and run. But he told us you have severe brain damage. We saw the scans and it looks like you may be denying what you experienced.” They showed me an image, an x-ray. They spoke to Adrian?
“Your husband is very worried about you, Grace. He thinks you may be having a psychotic break. He is really concerned about your well-being. He loves you very much.” The officer smiled softly. “Don’t you think you just got a little out of hand here?”
“N-no. He doesn’t love me. He stole me! I’m not Grace. Grace is dead, okay? I’m sure of it. I know it. I am telling you he has her body stuffed away somewhere and you’re gonna find it eventually!” I cried back at them, begging them to see things my way.
“Grace, you keep telling us you think you are Katrina. What do you know about Katrina?” They asked.
“She’s a missing person.” I responded coldly.
“She is a former foster youth. She ran away at seventeen and has since aged out of the system. The system case workers haven’t seen that girl in months. Last they saw her, she was hanging with the wrong crowd and engaging in a lot of illegal activities. You really think that could be you?” They looked at me skeptically.
I sighed. I couldn’t answer that. I was sitting at a police station in expensive leggings and a $200 sweater, with a $1500 laptop and $800 cash in my wallet, withdrawn from credit cards. I could understand their inability to believe me.
“Katrina was a user. She’s either dead, in jail in another state, or just flat out lying low until she gets caught. That girl has several warrants out for her arrest, and she’s been in and out of the system since she was three. I highly doubt a girl like you is capable of all that, Grace.” The officer smirked and handed me a photograph. In the picture was my face, but in a mugshot with Katrina’s full name, age, and date of birth printed below.
It took everything in me to refrain from bursting into tears right then and there. God, I so wanted to. I wanted to scream and tell them, “You’re wrong! She’s not a user. And I am her!” But I bit my tongue.
Because in that moment, my blood ran cold. I felt goosebumps shudder up my spine because I remembered this moment. I remembered this photograph being taken. I still remember.
I remember the bloody crime that led to my stay in Juvenile Detention, and I remember tricking the guards and running as fast as I could away from that place. I remember they wanted to try me as an adult. I remember hiding with a friend, waiting for time to pass, and hoping they’d just let it all go. But they didn’t. They put up flyers and looked all over the place for me, so I ripped them all down as much as I could. I hid for as long as I could.
And over time, I began to get cocky. I headed out on the town again, hanging out with everyone I should have been avoiding. I was out partying, ignoring my problems because I felt a high that couldn’t be matched. I was partying, and I was dancing. I was walking back to my friend’s in the middle of the night, laughing at the top of my lungs when I caught the eye of a dark-haired man with stubble glancing my way. I smirked at him, because he seemed intimidated, and I liked being the one to scare him.
“Grace?” The officer called my name and I glanced up. I couldn’t go back to being Katrina. It would mean a worse fate for me than this. So I nodded, “Yes officer, I’m Grace. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for scaring everyone.” I felt tears flooding my eyes, and I wanted to wipe them away but I let them flow.
The officers brought in Adrian, who exchanged a concerned glance with me, seemingly questioning my thinking. I smiled, “Hi honey. I remember you now,” I told him, giving him a falsified grin and hoping he’d buy in. He broke into a smile and reached across the table, taking my hand.
“Grace, I’m so glad you’re okay. These nice officers suggested you have a brief stay in the hospital, but I told them that won’t be necessary. You’ll attend outpatient again, right sweetie?” I nodded, “Of course.”
He drove me home.
It’s been several hours since then. Adrian left for work. The key to the storage unit is gone. I’m alone in the house again. But I think this is how it has to stay.