by W. Winters
“When you and your sister were little,” my mother interjects, “you two were as thick as thieves and I remember praying you’d stay close like I wish me and my sisters were.”
I can’t even think of Cadence right now and what she’s about to walk in on. My heart breaks today for so many reasons; I don’t know how it still beats.
“You remember that time you ate all the candy from the canister? I found it empty and called you two in.”
“You knew it was me the whole time?” I ask her, knowing just how this story plays out.
My mother nods her head. “Cadence was so quick to take the fall for you. And that time she stained the back seat of your auntie’s Buick, you took the blame for that one.”
The past events play out before me. We were just two sisters getting into normal trouble.
“You two were always looking out for each other.”
“Mom, what’s this have to do with Dad?” I ask and she only shakes her head, finally opening the bottle of shampoo. “Nothing, baby girl. I just want you to know I love you. I love you both so much and you can’t stop loving each other. Even if you stop loving me.”
Using a wad of toilet paper, I stop the tears from flowing but stay in the bathroom, the shower curtain closed so I can’t see behind it.
It’s quiet a long time, other than bottles opening and silent tears being swept away.
“You’re throwing your career away doing this,” my mother warns and a piece of me is all too aware of that possibility.
“You better get good at lying then. And holding on to that story, Mom. Because I don’t want to lose my job, but I’ll be damned if I lose you.”
With a harsh swallow I repeat what I just came up with as if it just happened. “I came home and no one was there but someone caught my eye as they ran out to the backyard. And then I saw you running into the woods. I was going to take you to the hospital because you wouldn’t stop crying and tried to hurt yourself.” I add in that last detail. “And I almost took you in, but you begged me not to.”
Rising to my feet, my body aches and my bones crack. Carefully, I pull back the shower curtain and pour out more than enough conditioning treatment as my mother’s head hangs in shame, and I lather it. I make sure to get it all, refusing to let any residue stay behind.
“I didn’t do it, I didn’t bring you in, because of what happened last month,” I whisper and my mother’s composure cracks. “They’re going to know about it, Mom, and it’s motive so it’s best we bring it up and control the narrative.”
She’s silent as I work the conditioner through her hair and then comb it through. “It needs to sit,” I tell my mother and she nods. The water’s still hot and the steam smothers me.
“Ask for a lawyer, speak as little as possible. I have the story and I’ll make sure it’ll stick. You just have to be quiet as much as you can and stick with the story I gave you.”
It’s quiet for the rest of the time, the hot water splashing onto my arms and chest when I rinse out her hair. It soaks into my sleeve where the blood resided and I watch the pink droplets fall into the tub. I’ll throw away the clothes. All of them and buy new ones for my mother in the morning.
Over and over in my head, I rehearse our story and hope it’s our way out of this.
My mother’s only silent or crying, nothing more than that until she tries to confide in me, “I wish …”
My motions stop, the lather on my hands a stark pure white and smelling sweetly of lavender.
This time when I ignore her, when I don’t press for more, I know why I’m doing it. I’m not strong enough to handle any more than this tonight. “There won’t be a damn shred of evidence to tie you to this when you go in for questioning. Don’t give them any. Don’t give them a damn thing.”
“What’d you do with the gun?”
“It’s wiped down, and it’s Dad’s, isn’t it?” I know it is. It doesn’t make sense to hide it when there are no fingerprints and they’ll know the gun that killed him matches the one he has registered.
“You will not go to prison for this. I swear by it.” Holding back the emotions I’m feeling, and relying on the ruthless lawyer inside of me, I step away and tell her to comb the leave-in conditioner through, as if she doesn’t know.
“I’ll leave these sweats for you.” My mother’s a bit larger than I am, but they’ll fit. My pajamas are always baggy and loose. She’ll be fine tonight in them.
Leaving them on the sink, I leave the bathroom, worn and damaged in a way that hits me the moment the cool air batters my skin. With the click of the door behind me, I lean my head back as shuddering breaths leave me.
My father’s dead. My mother’s a murderer.
And my mind can’t wrap itself around those facts. Fresh tears threaten as my phone sounds out. Sniffling, I pull myself together.
Cody’s called. Multiple times.
My sister’s called but she didn’t leave a voicemail.
No one else. So I don’t think she’s gotten home yet. She hasn’t made the discovery or called the cops. In the mindset of supporting my story, I should turn off my phone. And so that’s what I do right now. I hold down the button on the side until the screen turns black, shutting out the world and hiding. Just for one night.
And what about tomorrow? It’s Cody’s voice that questions me. The guilt of it squeezes like a vise around my chest.
I can’t tell him anything. Not any part of the truth. I can lie to the police all day, I can turn an interrogation into a children’s story. But Cody? He’ll see through it all, and I can’t confess to him.
The one person I want to talk to is the one who’s gotten away with murder—the one I need to make sure I don’t lose my mom too.
I help my mother brush her hair when she’s finally out of the bathroom and lying down on the bed. I brush her hair like she used to do for me.
When her chest falls and rises steadily, and I know she’s sleeping, I stand on weak legs. I clean it all up, tossing the clothes at the bottom of the tub, and rinsing them down.
I let them soak before tossing them out. There’s no reason to keep them, but if somehow they’re found, they’ll at least be clean of residue.
When I get back into the room, well after midnight with new clothes from the 24/7 Walmart two towns over, there’s a faint knock on the wall.
Knock, knock, knock knock knock … knock, knock.
Like a child. Like I used to do with my sister in the house and my father when he went up to the old barn.
As I get closer to it, the sequence comes again.
Knock, knock, knock knock knock …
I hesitantly reach out my hand and respond: knock, knock.
Marcus
I woke up to the soft cries of the boy who was huddled in the corner opposite of mine in the cell.
I know what that means and I swallow the jagged rock lodged in my throat that seems to block my voice.
It took a long time for either of us to speak. We’ve been here for … at least a week together, but he was here longer. I don’t know how long and I don’t want to ask. I don’t want to remind him of the first time.
I can trace every outline of my ribs. It tickles slightly when I do it and yesterday I did it so much the skin on my right side feels raw and still tingles when anything brushes against it. Sleep takes up most of the day and night. It’s easier to sleep now than it was before. The first few days I was terrified they’d come if I closed my eyes, but now I know they barely come at all. Unless we do something against the rules, they stay upstairs and forget about us. That’s what I pray for, for them to forget about us, even if that means we don’t eat for days.
The soft sound of his throat clearing comes with a hollow look. There’s a darkness around his eyes; I’m certain mine must mirror his.
“Do you think they’re gone?” he whispers and I nod although I don’t make the nod too obvious. They have cameras to keep an eye on us and they don’t like us talking. They let the do
gs in if we talk. I don’t want to see the dogs. He knows that. I’m certain he does.
It’s so quiet that I can hear when his head thuds against the wall. Looking in his direction, his eyes are closed and he looks as tired as I feel. But more than that, he’s terrified.
“How did you get here?” I ask just to say something to distract him from his own mind, but I hate the unspoken follow-up question that begs to be asked.
“I was walking home from school,” he says and as he answers his pointer finger draws on the cement. From the other side of the cell, I can’t see what he’s tracing.
“Where do you go to school?”
“I don’t know the name but my teacher is Miss Harrow. She teaches the kindergarteners.”
He’s younger than me. I almost ask him how old he is and what his name is, but the door to the upstairs suddenly opens. My first thought is that they’re sending down the dogs but it’s not. It’s worse. Much worse.
My shoulders slam against the brick wall as I hear a loud clang of a gate followed by a grunt. They’re back. Terrified eyes pierce into mine and with a quick and rushed movement, I gesture for the boy to come over to my side of the cell. His bare feet leave a sound I wish was the only sound I could hear, a pattering of small feet on the damp ground.
But the heavy boots outweigh the pitter-patter and even more so a muffled cry. A small voice that begs for help. The boy trembles next to me, smaller, weighing less and wearing less too. He’s cold, so cold but the shaking is from the same fear that works its way through my bones. My right arm wraps around his small body and I try to stay strong for him, forcing my eyes to stay open as we huddle in the corner farthest away from the iron gate. I watch because he doesn’t, he closes his eyes tight. One of us has to watch. This time it’s me.
“Shhh.” I hush him as his whimpers get louder. They’re almost here. The two men I know in my nightmares. There’s oil on their hands. I think it’s oil; it’s all I can smell when they come. They smell like the garage used to when my father’s car broke down.
The one on the right, the tall one and older one heaves the cell gate opposite ours open. The shorter one who’s heavier tosses the bag into the cell and a vicious crack sounds out followed by a shriek of pain.
Hot tears leak down my face, but I don’t look away. I have to make sure they stay over there, in that cell and not ours. And they do. The gate closes, locking with a click that will haunt me forever, and I watch because someone has to and the boy can’t.
The screams don’t stop for hours.
Delilah
My mother killed my father. The statement is fit for a tragedy, maybe one of Shakespeare’s plays. I hated English Lit in college. I only took the class because I had to. All the while I remember tapping my pencil against the textbook as I did the assigned readings, thinking how unrealistic it was. How outdated and far too dramatic the stories were as they unfolded.
As my mother lies on the edge of the queen bed, I can’t help but to be brought back to that moment, and suddenly I feel foolish. How did this happen?
With trembling hands, I close my eyes and pretend like it’s only a story. I don’t know if it’s the adrenaline that kept me from thinking about the reality … but my mother killed my father.
And I’m helping her get away with it.
Knock, knock, knock knock knock … The pattern of five faint knocks on the door to the hotel room draws my eye to the dull white door. A shadow is vaguely seen creeping from under the locked door.
My heart slams against my rib cage as a slip of paper slides under the crack.
Even from where I sit, huddled with my knees pulled into my chest and my eyes burning from lack of sleep and the prick of former tears, I can see the dark scribbles of handwriting.
The second the paper lands on the worn, thin carpet, the shadow disappears and it’s quiet again with the exception of heavy footsteps outside, followed by the creak of the next room’s door opening. I sit there, very much aware that it has to be Marcus who’s next door. It must be him. And more importantly … he must know what happened or that something has happened. How else would he have found me?
How much does he know? The question lingers as my body stays frozen.
Knock, knock. The last two taps of the game I remember from my childhood come through the wall only feet from me.
A shudder runs through me and I can only look back at my mother, still sleeping. Unaware of the fear that keeps me crippled in this chair.
A second passes and then another before the realization sinks in that I’d rather go to him than have him come here. I don’t know how I’m able to move my horrified limbs, but I do, bending down to read the slip of paper with the simple command on it.
Come over.
With a deep breath in I slip on my flats, once again staring at my mother’s sleeping form. Even in her rest, there’s a crease etched in the center of her forehead and her brow is pinched. Even in her sleep, she’s plagued by what’s happened. There’s no escape from it.
As I creep out of the room, all I can think is that she really did it. This is happening and I’m caught in the middle of it all.
Hesitation overwhelms me as I stand on the outdoor walkway in front of the room next door. The small peephole is a black pupil that stares back at me as the chill of the fall night air wraps itself around my shoulders.
With the back of my hand, I barely form a fist and rap: Knock, knock. Knock knock knock … I don’t have to finish. On the last knock, and with an eerie creak, the door opens. Not enough for me to go through, but enough to see the bathroom light is on inside. No other light, just the one and it barely bathes the room in the dim yellow glow.
“Hello?” I call out, my voice raspy and not at all sounding like myself. Clearing my throat, I gently push the door open wider. My heart races until I hear his voice.
“Come in. I’ve been waiting.”
Thump, thump, it all slows when I hear how calm and expectant he is. The deep baritone comes from the far left of the room. His room’s the same as mine, only mirrored. So his bed touches the wall where mine is placed. It’s only inches from where my mother sleeps.
That knowledge sends goosebumps down my back.
“Didn’t mean to keep you,” I tell him although I’m unsure where the response comes from. All of it is surreal and I find myself praying to just wake up.
“You were busy with your mother, that’s understandable.”
Thump, thump. The tips of my fingers go numb as I make my way to the chair seated in front of a simple desk. The other would be more comfortable, but it’s closer to him.
At the thought, my gaze lifts and I see more of him than I did before. For a moment, only a split second, I think he’s Cody, not Marcus.
With his dirty blond hair, just a bit too long to be Cody Walsh, and the width of his shoulders, he looks so much like him.
My head spins and I lean forward in the chair, unable to hide my reaction. Maybe I just wish Cody were here. I wish it were him sitting there.
“I look like him, don’t I?” he asks and there’s a pain present in his tone. Undoubtedly so.
“You do,” I say and a shudder runs through me at the admission.
“They used to say, never to us but to each other, the boy and I could be brothers.”
My heart pangs in my chest and I swallow thickly as I look up at him. “The boy?” I ask but Marcus only shakes his head.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up. You must have so much on your mind.”
The words jumble at the back of my throat and my gaze shifts to the light from his bathroom. The door is open and I can clearly see the shower curtain pulled back. I bathed her to get rid of evidence. I’m an accomplice to murder.
My father’s murder.
My head hangs lower and I have to part my lips to take in a shaky breath.
“You don’t want to talk about it?” Marcus asks.
My hands tremble as I pull my knees up and sit so d
amn uncomfortably on the small chair. My back leans against the wooden slats and my shoulders rest on the barely padded back of it.
“Do you know what happened?” I whisper, although I already know the answer.
“I do,” Marcus says. He stretches his legs out on the bed, still sitting up against the headrest. He’s taller and leaner than Cody. I take it all in. Some awful, devious voice whispers in the back of my mind that I could leverage what’s known about Marcus and his crimes. I could save my mother that way.
And myself.
With a quick shake of my head and a gut-churning sickness, I cover my eyes and drown that thought.
If I tried that, I’d be dead. Although as it stands, I may be dead already. The rabbit hole Alice fell down and the ridiculous plays they made us read in school … none of it was as fucked up and unreal as this.
“Have you come up with a plan?” Marcus asks and I tell him.
I spit out the story I told my mother three times tonight and I’ll tell her again tomorrow.
Marcus’s response is merely a murmured hmm. Prolonged and drawn out, lacking in either approval or disapproval.
“Why are you here?” The venom in my tone is shocking and judging by the tilt of Marcus’s head, giving more light to the left side of his face although it’s still dark from where he lies, it shocks him as well. I hold on to the strength. I ask, “Am I collateral? Is this blackmail?”
The dim light gives a sheen to his teeth as he smirks with a huff. Readjusting against the headboard, the bed groans before he answers, “To see if you were all right.”
The sick feeling from earlier drops into the pit of my stomach as my gaze lowers to the foot of the bed. Then I dare to look back up at him as he readjusts once more.
“And to give you an out. I could help with your mother.” The world stops for a moment, my lungs stilling completely as I watch him reach to the nightstand to hold up a pad of paper. “I left a note behind. Thought you should know.” The thud of the pad hitting the end table is followed by Marcus’s comment. “I’m not sure your sister is expecting it, but given how bad of a liar she is, it’ll only help your mother.”
