Chapter 5 - The Police Report and the Sister's Visit
At two in the afternoon, the door to Room 408 opened without a knock.
Detective Sarah Martinez, a compact woman with her hair pulled back into a severe bun, walked in, followed by a patrol officer with a digital recorder. She nodded to Daniel, who stood up from his chair with the weariness of a man running on his thirty-sixth hour of wakefulness.
"Miss Hayes," Martinez said, pulling a folding chair up to the right side of my bed. "I'm with the County Domestic and Special Victims Unit. I have your surgeon's medical preliminary, I have the venue's security footage, and I have five witness statements from guests who were seated within twenty feet of the mezzanine stairs. Are you prepared to give your formal statement?"
I looked at Daniel. He gave me a single, firm nod.
"Yes," I said.
For forty minutes, I went through every detail: the car accident three weeks prior that had left me with seven pins in my leg; the conversation by the stairs; the silver can of energy drink; the specific words Jessica had used when I refused to stand; the feel of her palms flat against my right shoulder blade; the kick against the aluminum shaft of my crutch; and the sound of my own bone breaking against the third stone step.
Martinez took notes in a narrow spiral pad, her face completely expressionless until I reached the end.
"Did you, at any point, reach for her wrist or her dress?" Martinez asked.
"No," I said. "My hands were on the crutch grips. When she pushed me, my left crutch flew forward. I was trying to find the handrail, but there was nothing there."
"And the defendant's statement that this was part of an agreed-upon 'comedy routine'?"
"I am a thirty-year-old civil engineer with an external fixation device on my leg," I said, my voice hardening. "I don't make comedy routines about falling down stairs."
Martinez clicked her pen shut. "We’ve reviewed the mezzanine video, Miss Hayes. It's very clear. The camera is eight megapixels with a direct line of sight. You can see her foot extend. You can see the deliberate application of force to your upper torso. The assistant prosecutor has already authorized a warrant for aggravated assault causing serious bodily injury, a second-degree felony in this state."
Before Martinez could stand, the door swung open again with a sharp clatter.
"Emily!"
Jessica stood in the doorway.
She was no longer wearing the wedding dress. She was dressed in an oversized gray cashmere sweater, black leggings, and large sunglasses pushed up onto her head—an outfit specifically chosen to project an image of fragile, exhausted contrition. Her face was completely devoid of makeup, her eyes artfully red-rimmed, and she held a small bouquet of grocery-store lilies wrapped in brown paper.
Behind her stood my mother, hovering like an anxious hen, and a man in a sharp blue suit carrying a slim leather portfolio whom I recognized as Gregory Vance, a high-priced criminal defense lawyer from the city.
"Jessica Hayes," Detective Martinez said, her hand instantly dropping to the leather holster on her hip. "You were explicitly instructed by Detective Brody not to make contact with the victim."
"She’s my sister!" Jessica gasped, her voice trembling with a terrifyingly convincing display of filial grief. She pushed past the patrol officer, dropping the lilies onto the foot of my bed. "Emily, oh God, look at you! I’ve been beside myself all night! They wouldn't let me come to the hospital! They treated me like a criminal!"
"You are a criminal, Jessica," Daniel said from the corner. His voice was like a bucket of ice water dumped over her performance.
Jessica didn't look at him. She kept her eyes glued to mine, her hands reaching out toward my good leg. "Em, tell them. Tell this police officer that we were just playing around. You know how we always joke! Remember when we were kids and we used to sled down the cellar stairs? It was an accident! I lost my balance because of the train on my dress, and my hand slipped against your shoulder!"
"Your hand didn't slip," I said, staring at her face.
For the first time in my life, the illusion was gone. The sister who had dominated every room, who had made me feel like an awkward, unpolished shadow for thirty years, was nothing more than a desperate predator whose cage door had just slammed shut.
"You whispered in my ear, Jess," I said, my voice steady, loud enough to register on the digital recorder Martinez had left running on the table. "You told me I was a spotlight-stealing bitch. You told me to fall down and stay down."
The room went dead.
Mr. Vance, the defense attorney, immediately stepped forward, grabbing Jessica by the upper arm with enough force to make her wince. "Jessica, do not speak. Not another word."
"Em, please," Jessica pleaded, her voice dropping into a desperate, furious whisper as Vance dragged her toward the door. "Think about what you're doing. If they arrest me, my career is gone! The brand deals are already sending termination letters! My agency dropped me an hour ago! Everything I’ve spent seven years building will be destroyed!"
"You should have thought about your brand," Daniel said, opening the door wider and pointing into the hallway, "before you used your sister as a prop for your engagement finale."
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"Daniel, you promised!" Jessica shrieked, finally turning her fury on him as two uniformed officers stepped into the hall to intercept her. "You promised to love me! You promised to take care of me!"
"I promised to marry Jessica Hayes," Daniel said, looking down at her with pure disgust. "I didn't realize until yesterday that Jessica Hayes doesn't exist. There's just a camera lens and an empty room."
