So I can understand why he’s more than a little suspicious of me. He doesn’t get it. None of them do.
I don’t care, though. The one thing I do care about is what his words mean. Between 3 and 3:20.
I came home before 3.
What the fuck?
That means they died while I was in the shower.
I guess, between showering, using the bathroom, getting dressed, brushing my teeth, and generally just getting every inchof Greyhound grime off of me… I was probably in the freaking bathroom for more than an hour, given that I called the police at nearly 4.
My parents died while I was in the house.
The thought makes me sick to my stomach. If only I had arrived just a little before. Taken an Uber from the bus station instead of walked. If only I hadn’t showered. Maybe they’d still be alive now.
Or maybe, I’d be dead too.
I swallow, my throat dry. “Do you… do you think they could have died while I was showering?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
He stares straight at me, and his eyes seem to bore into me, searching for some sign of guilt, maybe. Instead of answering, he says, “Your Greyhound bus arrived at 2.” He looks at me sharply with his beady eyes. “Even if you walked from the station, you would have gotten home before 3.” He pauses a moment, and my stomach roils, but not because I’m nervous about being under suspicion. The only thing I care about is that I was there when it happened.
“Did you hear any loud noises?” asks Jones at last, apparently deciding against asking any questions that might make me realize I’m now officially a person of interest.
Maybe even a suspect.
I’m not an idiot, though.
I shake my head.
“How about a softer noise?” he insists. “Like something more muted? The killer might have used a silencer.”
I shake my head again. “But I was listening to music. Pretty loud music.”
“What music?”
His eyes searching mine unsettle me. I gulp. “The Beatles. It was on pretty loud, I guess. The White Album.”
“Nice taste,” he smiles, but I glare at him.
He clears his throat, probably remembering that I just lost both my parents, which to him makes me either a victim, or a murderer, or both. In any case, it makes me someone who is in no mood to talk. For once.
Because in spite of all the bullying over the past ten years, I’ve never quite shaken my chatterbox tendencies.
Officer Jones resumes his questioning. “So, when you walked through the front door, did you lock it after you?”
I hesitate. “I… I don’t remember. Maybe I didn’t. I often forget to.”
He nods, making another note. “If that’s true, it might open up the field of suspects. Maybe it’s not a friend or a family member after all. Someone could have taken advantage of that unlocked door and taken your parents by surprise.” He speaks smoothly, as though trying to trick me into thinking I’m safe. But his beady eyes glued on me tell me the truth. “Did you lock the door to the bathroom?”
“Uh… I don’t think so. I closed it, but I didn’t lock it. I knew my parents wouldn’t come in.”
“So, whoever it was, if they came while you were showering, didn’t even try to kill you. Yet the shower must have made noise. They would have known you were there, but they didn’t open the door. They went straight for your dad and your mom. Can you think of someone who would want to kill them, and spare you?”
The first name that jumps to my mind makes absolutely no sense.
Quill Nelson.
It makes no sense because if he decided to go on a murder spree, I’d be the first on his hit list.
