Their Last Night on Maple Street

They say memory is a funny thing, but I don't find it funny at all. I find it frustrating—because no matter how hard I try, I can't remember exactly what happened that night. Not clearly, anyway. But I know I didn’t do anything wrong. I need you to believe me.

I was the last person to see them, that much is true. Rachel and Evan were my best friends—we did everything together. People say that I was jealous of them, of their relationship. That's ridiculous. We were a trio, like we always had been since high school. They were perfect for each other, and I was happy for them. Why would anyone think otherwise?

But then they disappeared.

Let me explain. It was a Friday night, and the three of us were hanging out at their place on Maple Street. We'd been drinking a little, sure. We always did when we were together. It was just another night of pizza and cheap wine, laughing at dumb jokes and reminiscing about the old days. Everything was normal.

Except for the argument.

Okay, yes, we argued. But it wasn’t anything serious. I don’t even remember what started it—something about Evan wanting to move to the city and Rachel wanting to stay. I chimed in, of course, trying to mediate like I always did. I said something like, “Why don’t you guys just talk it through?” But they snapped at me. I wasn’t expecting it. I don’t think they were either. Tension had been building between them for weeks, but that wasn’t my fault. They just took it out on me because I was there.

I remember storming out of the house, slamming the door behind me. The cool night air hit my face, sobering me up a little. I was mad, but not mad enough to leave for good. I just needed a moment. A walk around the block. When I came back, we’d make up like we always did.

But when I got back, something felt… off.

The front door was ajar. It was usually locked—Rachel was paranoid about that kind of thing. I pushed it open, calling their names. No answer. The lights were still on, the TV still playing some late-night show we’d been watching, but Rachel and Evan were gone.

At first, I thought they’d gone out to look for me, or maybe they’d just decided to call it a night and go to bed. But when I checked the bedroom, it was empty. Their phones were still on the kitchen counter, keys untouched by the door.

I searched the house, the backyard, the driveway. Nothing. They were gone, just like that.

I didn’t panic at first. I mean, why would I? It was weird, sure, but I figured they’d just gone for a walk, maybe to cool off after the argument. But an hour passed, and then another. I kept calling their names, texting their phones, but there was no response.

By morning, I was frantic. I called the police, and you can imagine how that went. They came, asked me questions—how much we’d had to drink, what we’d argued about, whether they had any reason to leave. I told them everything, but I could see the suspicion in their eyes. They thought I knew more than I was saying.

The investigation started the next day, but no one found anything. No signs of a struggle, no forced entry, no witnesses. Rachel and Evan had just vanished. The only thing they had to go on was me—because, of course, I was the last person to see them alive.

Alive. That’s what they said, like they were already assuming the worst.

The days turned into weeks, and I was questioned over and over again. Every time, I told the truth—or at least, what I could remember. But they kept asking about that night, picking apart every detail, every moment.

“Are you sure there wasn’t another argument?”

“What did Evan say exactly?”

“How did Rachel look when you left the house?”

The thing is, I don’t remember. Not exactly. I remember the anger, the door slamming, and the empty house. But everything else is a blur. No matter how much I think about it, I can’t fill in the gaps. I tried explaining that to the detectives, but they just stared at me like I was hiding something. They didn’t believe me then, and I don’t think they do now.

I even started doubting myself.

I know what you’re thinking. People don’t just disappear. There had to be something more, some piece I was missing. Maybe I’d blacked out and forgotten something crucial. Maybe I’d left and come back to something terrible, something I just couldn’t face. I considered every possibility, every scenario, but none of them made sense. I didn’t do anything. I would’ve remembered.

Then, a week ago, I found something.

I was cleaning out my car, trying to distract myself from the constant news updates about the “unsolved mystery” of Rachel and Evan’s disappearance. That’s when I noticed it—Rachel’s scarf, crumpled up in the backseat. It wasn’t just any scarf, but the one she’d worn that night, the one with the little embroidered stars along the edge.

I froze when I saw it. How had it gotten there? I hadn’t driven anywhere with Rachel in weeks. I hadn’t even noticed it before.

I picked it up, and that’s when I smelled it. Blood.

There was a dark stain on the scarf, just enough to make me sick to my stomach. My mind raced, piecing together fragments of memories that didn’t add up. Rachel and Evan arguing, me leaving, the empty house. But no, I couldn’t have… I wouldn’t have…

But what if I did?

I tried to think back to that night, forcing myself to remember every step, every moment after I walked out. But there’s this blank spot, this fog in my mind that I can’t get through. What happened after I left the house? Did I come back? Did something go wrong?

I didn’t hurt them. I know I didn’t.

But why can’t I remember?

The police keep calling, asking me to come in for more questions. They say they’re close to finding something, but I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to know.

Because the truth is, I’m scared. Scared that I’ll remember what happened that night. Scared that when I do, it won’t be what I want it to be.

I didn’t do anything.

At least, I don’t think I did.