The Island

27. Interrogation

Jordyn

Sam begins to walk out of the water, training his eyes on me. I dig my hands into the ground and refuse to move. Even as he sizes me up like a lion approaching its prey, I hold my breath. I can't run now. That would only make me look guilty. I didn't do anything wrong.

"Sam, please," I whisper as he hovers over me.

"You have explaining to do," he growls.

I swallow hard.

"I know..." I mutter. "Where do you want me to start?"

Sam sits down in the sand across from me, keeping his knife tight in his fist.

"Kaia's murder," he says. "Was it you?"

"Of course not! I'm not a murderer, Sam."

"Then what are you?"

"I told you. My crime was arson."

"Have you remembered who yet?"

My heart sinks. That is one thing the revelations hid from me. I have absolutely no clue who I killed. That hadn't mattered at the time. I was too distraught with Sam's turning on me.

He knows my answer before I can form words.

"That's a no," he snaps. "So, it could have been my parents."

"I didn't kill your parents, Samson. I know that much."

He eyes me skeptically.

"I've never lied to you," I say softly, playing with the white sand between us. "Why would I choose now of all times?"

Sam scoffs. "I've known you for less than five days."

No, you've known me a lot longer, I want to say. Years. I can still smell the flowers surrounding his house, taste the salted, combined tears on the day it burned, hear the rocks bouncing off the metal, blending with a laugh like angels on high. The memories swirl together like ink floating in black water until one is indecipherable from the other and they come together to make one beautiful, tragic mess-- Sam and me.

I don't know what we were, but that tight feeling in my throat can't be simple familiarity. The ache in my chest can't be faint friendship. There was something more--something stronger--that was swept under the rug. I can feel it through the thick threads that blanket my memories; I just can't uncover it yet.

"Have you gotten any memories back at all?" I ask as an idea forms in my head.

"Why?" he asks, squinting at me.

"Just answer the question."

"I mean, I remember a little," he mumbles as he runs a hand through his hair. It's already a vertical mess. Adding more height is just going to make him look more adorable.

"Let's see if ours match," I say. "That'll prove I'm not lying to you."

"Why would our memories match, Jordyn? That's--"

"Just go along with it, Samson," I plead, throwing a handful of sand at him in frustration. The clump hits him in the leg, and he brushes it off with a scowl.

"Fine. Go ahead."

"You lived in a white house," I whisper, deciding to start small. "It was surrounded by multi-colored flowers that stood maybe three inches off the ground. You had a porch swing." I bury my fingers in the sand and take a shaky breath. "Your mom had eyes the color of the sky on the clearest summer day, just like yours, and she kept her hair in a braid over her shoulder. You look so much like her that it's sort of scary, down to the freckles on your nose. Her name was Lydia, and she loved you more than anything."