Chapter 4The Anchor Point

Inside the interrogation room at the precinct, I sat at a metal table, feeling like a convicted felon.

The elderly passengers were all talking over each other, aggressively accusing me of horrific crimes.

"Officer, it's her! She's a professional con artist!"

"She started out claiming my dead son was alive, and now she's pretending to be a dead girl! She has to be part of an organized extortion ring!"

Listening to their accusations, I felt an exhausting, paralyzing sense of helplessness.

A young police officer frowned, listening to their frantic stories before finally turning to me.

"Name. Date of Birth. Social Security Number."

I recited my information mechanically.

The officer typed my details into his computer. After a few seconds, he looked up at me, his expression twisting into something deeply bizarre.

"Your permanent address is in this county? Is your father's name Richard Quinn?"

"Yes! Officer, call my dad right now! He can verify my identity!"

The officer nodded slowly. He pulled up the registered phone number for Richard Quinn and dialed it from his desk phone.

The phone rang a few times and was picked up.

"Hello? Is this Richard Quinn? This is the county police department..."

The voice coming through the speakerphone was deeply, undeniably familiar.

It was my dad!

I eagerly leaned forward, shouting toward the phone on the desk:

"Dad! It's me! It's Maya!"

The line went dead silent for several agonizing seconds.

Then, my dad's voice came through the speaker, laced with profound confusion.

"Officer... is this some kind of prank?"

"My daughter... my daughter Maya died ten years ago in the fire at Lincoln High."

My brain instantly flatlined. White noise.

Dad... what is he talking about?

Why is he saying I'm dead?

"No! That's impossible!" I shook my head violently, practically lunging across the table toward the phone. "Dad! Listen to my voice! It's me, Maya! I'm not dead! I was literally just at the house with you for Thanksgiving! You packed my bag this morning!"

A heavy, suffocating sigh echoed through the speaker.

"Miss, I don't know who you are, or what kind of sick game you're playing. But please, I am begging you. Leave my family alone."

Click.

He hung up.

The police officer's face turned incredibly severe.

He furiously typed a few commands into his keyboard.

Ten minutes later, he grabbed his monitor and turned the screen around to face me.

"Ms. Quinn. Look at this."

Displayed on the screen was an archived news article from ten years ago.

The headline was a gut punch:

[MASSIVE BLAZE AT LINCOLN HIGH. THANKSGIVING CELEBRATION TURNS TRAGIC. NO SURVIVORS REPORTED.]

Below the article was a long, meticulously formatted list of the casualties.

Amidst the dense block of text, I clearly saw the names...

David Miller.

Maya Quinn.