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SOUND THE ALARM

Lizzie

JANUARY 4, 2001

T ELLING H UGH ABOUT MY MEMORIES WAS A MISTAKE .

Not because he didn’t believe me, but because I didn’t believe myself.

My memories continued to fuse with my imagination until I couldn’t tell the difference.

I couldn’t be sure of anything anymore, which didn’t help matters when Hugh called a meeting with my parents on New Year’s Day and demanded we file another statement with the Gardaí, providing them with the details I had given him the night before.

I tried to remain stable, I truly did, but when I was taken to the station and faced with more officers, I lost it.

Unable to retain any coherent detail of the night my sister died, I had rambled on deliriously until they called in a doctor.

After that, everything went dark.

When my parents brought me back to the station three days later, I was questioned intrusively on the state of my home life by another officer. This one didn’t a wear a uniform, but she spoke like one and bombarded me with questions she had no business asking.

“Is there any history of abuse in the home?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? This is a safe space, where you can be truthful.”

“No.”

“Has anyone ever touched you inappropriately?”

“No.”

“What about when you were little?”

“No.”

“Are you sure about that, Lizzie?”

“Yes.”

“How is your relationship with your mother.”

“Good.”

“And your father?”

“Fine.”

“Has either one of your parents ever harmed you?”

“No.”

“No physical reprimands or spanking?”

“Never.”

“And your sister?”

“No, they never touched her, either.”

“Did your sister ever harm you?”

“My sister’s dead.”

“I’m aware of that,” the woman replied coldly. “Before she died, did your sister harm you?”

I narrowed my eyes. “No.”

“You were violent to her, though.” She watched me carefully as she spoke. “My records say you left a permanent scar on your sister’s right cheekbone after an altercation.”

Shame filled me. “I don’t remember doing that.”

“You have a clinical diagnosis of bipolar disorder, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“You were diagnosed in early childhood with the condition?”

“Yes.”

“Which type?”

“What does that matter?”

“Delusions and hallucinations are more common in those with type 1.” She eyed me for a long moment before saying, “Is it safe to assume type 1?”

Instantly despising this woman, I gripped the armrests of the chair I was sitting on and hissed. “I’m not delusional.”

“But you do hear voices.”

“No, I don’t .”

She arched a disbelieving brow. “Your parents gave us permission to speak with one of your doctors, and it was confirmed to us that you have been hearing voices since early childhood.” She gave me a hard look. “The scary lady, for instance.”

My face flamed with heat. “The doctor shouldn’t have told you that.”

“The doctor had your parents’ written permission to release any information that pertains to your latest accusations,” she countered evenly. “I presume this ‘scary lady’ is the same one you convinced your friend was stalking you?”

Hugh .

She was talking about Hugh .

“I didn’t convince him of anything,” I strangled out, feeling my body vibrate with tension. “We both saw her.”

“You’ve been making very serious accusations with no evidence to back them up.” Resting her elbows on the table between us, she clasped her hands together as she spoke. “These accusations are both time-consuming to the officers in question and costly to the state. Do you understand?”

My nostrils flared. “Yes.”

“I am sympathetic to your position,” she offered in a gentler tone. “You’ve been through a terrible ordeal, which I have no doubt has exacerbated your bipolar symptoms.”

But…

“But this constant stream of accusations cannot continue,” she filled in. “We have received formal complaints from Mr. Allen’s stepmother and while we are sympathetic to what you’re going through, if this behavior doesn’t stop, there will be legal consequences.”

“Sadhbh filed complaints against me?” I managed to squeeze out, breathing hard and fast. “Accusing me of what ?”

She shuffled through her notes before saying, “Defaming her sons.”

“Sons,” I whispered, feeling weak. “Plural?”

“Yes. Both Mrs. Allen’s stepson and biological son are listed as victims in her complaint.”

Victims .

Did I hear that right?

They were victims ?

“Nobody wants to see you in trouble, Miss Young,” the officer continued to say. “Certainly not any member of my team, but you are pushing it to the point where we are going to have to intervene if this behavior doesn’t stop.” She paused for a long beat before adding, “None of us want to see a grieving child in a Garda station, so can I have assurance that you will stop slandering the Allen family?”

“Don’t worry,” I mumbled, feeling my heart turn cold. “You’ll never see me back here again.”