Summary:

At some point between getting home and finding the mess in the kitchen, Shane calls the police and his parents in quick succession.

He doesn’t remember those phone calls at all. Blocked them from his memory the second they were over—doesn’t know what he said, what his mother replied—what the operator on the other end of the line asked him.

The only proof he has of ever placing the calls is the record of them in his phone—neatly stacked over-on-another. 911 right below Mom.

Below that, a series of phone calls to Ilya (husband), some barely even twenty seconds long, just short little I love you’s and what juice did you say you wanted from the store’s. Shane actually has to scroll for a while before he finds any other number in his call log. 

If Shane were to add all of that data into an excel sheet he’d have proof that Ilya took up about 90% of his call records and yet it doesn’t feel like enough.

or the Hollywood amnesia + presumed dead fic nobody asked for