Page 101 of East

She calls the cops, exactly like she would.

While she does this, I grab the cup from Bill’s bedside and clean it poorly with just a damp rag. Leave it in the sink.

The police question me. I make sure my pigtails are neat, that the gingham dress I’m wearing is clean. I mention again that Bill and Emmy had a fight last night. They did. It’s not a lie. They fight every night.

They take Bill’s body away. A few days later we get the call. Barbiturate overdose.

He didn’t suffer.

Not like I did.

They start investigating. The cup is still in the sink. Emmy has been too distraught to notice. We’ve had takeout the last few nights for dinner. They find the cup, discover the residue inside. Emmy’s fingerprints, not mine. They interview locals who recount the stories I told them. They check her computer, see the suspicious searches.

It’s all circumstantial. But with enough circumstantial evidence, an arrest can be made.

They take her away, put me in foster care.

Most people who are in foster care have horror stories, but I flourish there.

I never see Emmy again.

She’s probably figured out what I did by now.

Only two people were in the house that night, and she knows she didn’t do it.

But she’s the wicked stepmother who married the abusive stepfather.

The narrative writes itself.

When I’m eighteen, I move to Chicago. I’m going to study meteorology at U of C.

And I never return to Kettle Springs again.

The case of Bill’s death has been closed for years.

As far as the police are concerned, Emmy did it. She never confessed, of course. But it wasn’t necessary. The evidence was overwhelming.

She’s an old lady now. In her late eighties. As far as I know she’s still alive, still in prison. They might let her out on compassionate release because she’s so old, but she has no place to go. The bank foreclosed the farm and all the money she had left went to legal fees.

I don’t regret what I did. She deserved it. Every last bit of it.

But I’ve known something since I was fifteen years old.

I am capable of killing a man.

I didn’t kill Kin. But if the cops dig into my past and reopen Bill’s case, they’ll learn I was involved.

They might even deduce that I framed my stepmother.

There’s no statute of limitations on murder. Even if the bastard deserved it.

I’ll go to prison, and then they’ll have all the more firepower to pin Kin’s death on me as well.

I’m not the person who gets framed. I’m the person who frames.

These are the thoughts plaguing me as I lie in Aus’s bed. I woke up a few minutes ago, finally allowing the memories I’ve been suppressing since that night at the gala to surface.

I need a distraction.