“Karen,” Dad warns.
“I’m just concerned,” Mom explains.
“It’s good to see you,” Dad says, setting my bag down in the living room. “It looks like you came to stay.”
“Maybe for a few days,” I respond.
“Is anything wrong?” Dad asks, worried.
“I’ll tell you all about it,” I promise. “But right now I’d love something to eat and a shower.”
Mom pokes her head into the refrigerator to check out the leftover situation. “There’s half a lasagna and some potato salad.”
“I’ll take both,” I say.
“You really are hungry,” Mom exclaims.
“You have no idea,” I reply. It seems like all the anxiety that left my body in the past ten minutes has been replaced by hunger. I’m suddenly ravenous, and I think I can polish off the leftovers, no problem.
Mom makes me a plate and sticks it in the microwave. About a minute later, it comes out, hot and ready to eat. I grab a fork and chow down, soothing myself with carbs. At least my parents are still alive and safe for the time being.
I put the empty plate in the sink and go to take a shower. The beat of hot water against my skin feels good, reviving me somewhat. When I’m done, my parents are gathered in the living room, waiting to hear my story.
I draw a deep breath. This is going to be hard for them to hear. I know there will be tons of questions, and I hope I can answer them all. This discussion is going to be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.
“Okay,” I begin, settling down in a chair by the fireplace. “I don’t think Danny killed himself.”
“I don’t want to hear this,” Dad says, standing up.
“Please,” I respond, rising to stop him. “Hear me out.”
Dad looks at me like I’ve just killed Danny all over again. I hate that I have to reach inside his chest and tear his heart out, but that’s exactly what I have to do. It’s not fair to Danny to have our parents walking around thinking that he killed himself. If nothing else, convincing my parents that the true culprit is still out there will mean something.
“He was working on a story about the mafia,” I continue.
“Oh, for goodness sake!” Dad erupts, pacing the length of the living room with his back toward me. “Danny wasn’t killed by the mob.”
“Yes, he was!” I shout. “You don’t want to see it because it’s easier to believe what the police say.”
“Isn’t that their job?” Mom asks sweetly.
“Yes and no,” I reply, sitting back down. “Some of the police are working for the mafia.”
“Sofia, this is crazy,” Dad says, turning back to face me.
“No,” I assure him. “It’s not crazy. I’ve been doing a lot of research, and I think I’ve found the family responsible.”
“For what reason would they possibly kill Danny?” Dad asks. His voice chokes on the word ‘kill,’ and I feel the damage it does to him like a dagger to the heart.
“He was working on a story,” I repeat myself. “I don’t have all the specifics, but he was going to shine a spotlight on all the corruption in our city.”
“Don’t you think his boss would have told us?” Dad argues.
“Why won’t you consider the fact that Danny wouldn’t have taken his own life?” I shout, devolving into the angry teenager I once was.
“And why won’t you accept the fact that he did?” Dad questions.
“Because he didn’t!” I scream. This conversation is going worse than I could possibly imagine. We’re entrenched in our own camps, each one of us acting out of grief. I can’t believe that Danny would have done something so hurtful, but my father is so overwhelmed by the whole thing that he’s latched on to the simplest story. I need to calm down if I have any chance of convincing them. I close my eyes and draw a deep breath, going back to the day I found my brother’s body on the couch. “Danny didn’t have a gun.”
