Grief Counseling

What just happened?

     The windshield whippers swish across the glass as the squad car rolls through the the plush neighborhood. My black chucks squish as I rub them on the rug below them.  Water drips through the clumped strands of my hair like an icicle on the first warm spring day. Mascara that once sat daintily on my eyelashes now smears down my seemingly hollow face. At least it feels hollow, or maybe I just am hollow.
My mind keeps slipping in and out as the officer - a rather bigger man with a bushy mustache, a cliché a cop- taps his fingers against the steering wheel.
"I should've worn waterproof today. I should've looked at the forecast." I say through my choked voice. The officer glances at me pitifully but still with a smile.
"Yeah, maybe you should've," he chuckles. His belly shakes slightly, yet his fingers still keep tapping the steering wheel.
I should've done a lot of things different, but I didn't.
"But you couldn't have known," say the cop quieter, softer.
As we rolled into the station, I couldn't help to think that he meant something more than just my poor choice my mascara on a spring day in Minnesota.
"We're here." The officer looks over at my, making eye contact for the first time. On the breast pocket of his blue uniform sit a name tag with the name 'Larsson.'
"Okay, okay." my hands shake as I unbuckle my seatbelts slowly. By the time I have unlatched the buckle, the officer is at my door, opening it, and holding an umbrella out for me. We walk up the cement path to the Police Department, past the front desk, and into a room. The officer hands me spare clothing to change into and waits outside the room for me to finish. I strip the now raggedy t-shirt, and slit up pants that are stained with blood.
Not your blood now, is it?
A pair of mens small sweatpants, which will be way too big, and a mens small sweatshirt sit in front of me. They easily slip over my body. I was hoping the guilt would slip off with the old clothing, but it still weighs on me like an oversize poncho.
Officer Larsson takes me into another room, after what felt like miles of hallways, and sits me down. Not another word is spoken until a guy, with an expensive tux, walks in. His demeanor is tense, angry, and anything but lax. This man, who clearly is in charge, can't be more than twenty-six with his boyishly styled brown hair and green eyes. The man sets his folder down and pulls the chair out slowly, emphasizing the screeching sound as it scrapes the tiled floor. Finally he sits down and looks me straight in the eyes.
"Okay, Wilhelmina, is it?" I nod subconsciously, the man watches me closely.
Just as he begins to talk, I say, "Call me Mina, please, Mister...?"
"Lieutenant Carson Findhem. I'm here to investigate the tragedy you wound up in." Findhem plops his folder over, making sure I hear as the clip slaps again the metal surface.
What is he trying to do? Does he already know?
"So, Mina, tell me what happened."
My brain rattles, a revolution of sorts, as I try to make sense of the events that unfolded only a few hours before.
What just happened?