They met with two detectives in plainclothes in an office. Detective Swenson was young, maybe thirty-five and the other, Detective Lundquist, looked like he should retire—he had to be in his sixties with silver hair and a grandfatherly paunch. It was the younger man who questioned her. The questions began slowly and were disarmingly superficial. Full name? Date of birth? Where were you on April 22, 2015? Who were you with? His full name and address? Who were your friends? Their full names?

    Sierra didn’t know where Derek Cox lived; there weren’t too many friends during that time. She gave information about her roommate, her last address, a couple of people from work, several people she knew by their first names only because they were regulars at her favorite bar, Charlie’s.

    “Can we please get to the reason you wanted to interview Ms. Jones?” Cal suggested firmly.

    “Why weren’t you at your favorite pub that night, the night of the twenty-second? You were seen at Flynn’s, is that right?”

    “I was avoiding Derek Cox. He was pestering me and I thought he was following me. I just wanted to be left alone.”

    “But you were with him that night?”

    “He was there. He was everywhere I went, it seemed like. I wanted to turn and leave, but he saw me and I didn’t want him to follow me into the parking lot. I didn’t sit with him. I picked a place in the corner, near the bar, alone.”

    “And you didn’t talk to him?”

    She shook her head and the detective said, “Verbal answers for the tape, please.”

    “No, I didn’t talk to him. I almost left but I didn’t want to leave alone because I was nervous and that night I didn’t seem to know the people there. I mean, I knew the bartender, the waitress, but not the customers. I thought he might follow me out. I told you, I felt he was stalking me. But after about an hour he came over to the table and sat down and tried to make conversation.”

    “And you were drinking that night?”

    “I wasn’t drunk,” she said. “I’d had a couple of glasses of wine and it hit me really hard. All of a sudden I was losing focus, getting really woozy, thinking about a cab, thinking about a cup of coffee and a cab.”

    “Did you usually do that? Drink coffee, call a cab?”

    “I didn’t usually get drunk on two glasses of wine! He drugged me. He must have put something in my wine because I hadn’t had that much to drink.” She smiled sadly. “I could really hold my liquor.”

    “Can you still? Hold your liquor?”

    “I haven’t had a drink in over a year,” she said. “I’m in AA now. In recovery.”

    “How about your drug use?”

    “You don’t have to answer that,” Cal said. “You’re not on trial. These questions are supposed to pertain to a felony hit-and-run involving your car. Whether you ever took drugs is not relevant. That you didn’t take drugs that night is relevant.”

    “It’s okay. I rarely did drugs. A little pot here and there. And ecstasy once—I didn’t like it. I admit that when the dentist gave me a Valium I loved it so I didn’t do it again. No, I wasn’t a druggie. Liquor was good enough to take me down.”

    “But back then, that night and before that night, you were drinking heavily?”

    “Yes,” she said. “I didn’t think so, but...yes.”

    “Could you have stopped somewhere before going to Flynn’s? Maybe had a couple of glasses of wine or drinks somewhere else first?”

    Again she shook her head. Then she said, “Not that I can recall.”

    They asked her to look at a video. It was footage from a convenience store gas pump. A man got out of the car, put gas in the tank, smiled and then laughed at something. He got back into the car on the driver’s side. The image was blurry but she knew it was him.

    She was clearly sitting in the passenger seat. Of her car. The license plate was visible on the tape as the car pulled out.

    “That’s him. That’s my car. I don’t remember that. I don’t remember a gas station. I don’t remember stopping for gas. I only remember brief snatches. He must have taken me out of the bar to my car.”

    “Describe the day and night as you remember it,” the detective instructed.

    She went through it, moment by moment, explaining again and again that she was moving in and out of consciousness, that he had abducted her, he had stolen her car, somehow got her in it, took her back to her house, to her garage where he assaulted her.

    “And when you hit the victim...?”

    “I didn’t know what happened. We hit something. I remember I got agitated and Derek looked to see what we hit. I think he hit me or I passed out again. I never saw anyone.”

    “Your car was damaged...the front right bumper and side.”

    “Could’ve been a rock or a branch or a—Look, I didn’t know what it was. And even if I had, I was in no condition to help.”

    They made her retrace her movements for the past year and five months over and over again. Her fleeing to Iowa, her entry into rehab, her work history, her move to Colorado. Several times Cal suggested she didn’t have to answer questions that didn’t pertain to the accident for which she was being questioned. Almost every time she answered anyway, trying to give them what they wanted, what they needed.

    They brought lunch, right when she was in the thick of it and she couldn’t have eaten if her life depended on it.

    “I’m about to end this interview,” Cal said. “Let’s move this along quickly.”

    “It’s probably in the best interest of your client to be patient for these questions and get it all behind her.”