The Last of Us

1 | The Circle

There are two types of secrets; those inherited from others and those you make yourself. Cindy Ackerman believed no good came from harboring them. They sow a seed of destruction no bomb ever could. This time she insisted it was vital.

Sat in the Paradise Police Department, I hoped to hell she was right. This girl appreciated the destructive nature of a secret more than most.

"You'll be fine, Nick. Are you okay?"

It was an over-asked question reserved for clerks at the grocery store checkout. It was never genuine. You're supposed to say, "Great," even if your cat had just died in your arms. Yet, when Cindy sought the answer, she meant it.

I nodded. I am alright, aren't I?

She stopped biting her nails and knotted her fingers in her lap. The wait was grueling, and I couldn't shake the feeling it was intentional. This was god-awful and way worse than the Principal's office.

There was a near-constant crackle of dispatchers speaking. Police officers and detectives milled about, moving in and out of the interview rooms in front of us. A muted black-and-white Humphrey Bogart roamed the alleyways of Casablanca on a television fixed to the wall. The plaque above it read 'The Heart of a Town Lies in its People.'

If only they knew...

After a minute's silence, her posture straightened, and she said. "This is the last hurdle. We've come full circle. The secrets and the lies, they'll all end with us."

A glint of determination in her sapphire eyes said she still harbored hope, and it struck with the ferocity of a deliberate gut punch.

"Together," I replied, keeping her gaze, knowing she wouldn't be around forever.

The corner of Cindy's lips turned up. "I promise, only the truth now." But for a habitual liar, she should have been more convincing.

Interview door 2B swung open, and a man in his late forties stuck his head out and surveyed the waiting area.

"Are you Mr. Brennan?" he asked.

In the split second, it took for his eyes to fix on me, I was seven years old again, not seventeen. I've broken Mr. Thompson's window with a stray baseball, and now Mom wants me to apologize. Would he shout? Would he understand that accidents happen?

Cindy eyed me with caution, looking for signs I would back out.

I gritted my teeth.

"Nick, breathe; you're holding your breath."

My lungs responded to her words or the threat I would die if they didn't.

"That's me," I said.

"I'm Detective Kowolski. Sorry to have kept you. Please come with me." A watchful expression flitted across his face as I approached and followed him into the room.

The detective returned to his desk and gestured to a chair. We were not alone. Detective Scott perched beside his colleague dressed in the same charcoal polyester suit he had worn the last time we had made an acquaintance.

As gruff and direct as that man was, it relieved me Simon's Dad wasn't on shift. The kindness he would afford me at this crucial stage of our plan would shatter my resolve to proceed with it.

Detective Kowolski fumbled with a microphone; untangling the cable, he placed it central on the desk. Setting the tape player down, he pressed the eject button and flipped over the audiotape. A single red light blinked.

We were now recording.

He tapped the foam head of the microphone. "This is Police Interview one."

The detective dragged a chair across the office and eased into his seat. The map of lines across his face spoke of worries past, battered by the weather, life, or an abhorrent disregard for sun-cream; I couldn't imagine who he had been in youth.

Detective Scott cleared his throat. "Your parents are on their way, but you have elected to proceed with this interview without an attorney or guardian present. Is that correct?"

"Yes," I confirmed.

"I'll get right to it then. When did you last see Cindy Ackerman?"

Cindy bowed her head, disguising the tear that rolled down her nose.

"Let me correct, Mr. Brennan, last time you saw the deceased alive?"

My breath hitched. My gaze rose from the floor and met him head-on. There could be no doubting my next words.

"To my knowledge, it was Monday, April 13th, before the tornado hit." My leg bounced on the floor, stilling as it caught his attention.

Detective Scott failed to blink.

Cindy Ackerman had a secret that only I knew. Being dead, wasn't it. Perhaps he now knew that too.

Detective Kowolski stopped scribbling. Gripping the pen with his fingers, his hand hovered over his notepad. "Mr. Brennan, please, carry on in your own words from the beginning..."