Free Thicker Than Water by Brigid Kemmerer Page B

comment hangs out there. We fall silent for a while, eating our food. The kitchen clock ticks away the minutes.
    “They’re not going to solve it, are they?” I finally say.
    Stan doesn’t say anything, so I glance up. “It’s been too long, without any leads,” I say. “That’s why they’re putting all the pressure on me. You’ve got to lock someone up.”
    “That’s not how investigations work,” he says. “We don’t lock someone up because it’s convenient .”
    My eyes narrow. “So you’re saying everyone in prison is one hundred percent guilty? They’re not there because the community needed someone to punish, just to prove that the bad guy was off the streets?”
    “You’re making me out to be a prosecutor, a defense attorney, and a judge,” Stan says. “I’m none of those things. All I can tell you is what I do, Tom. Not any of those other people.”
    “But there’s nothing left to investigate. Your house has been cleaned up. The murder is almost a week old. There are no clues. It’s me or nothing, isn’t it?”
    “There has to be something left,” he says.
    “How do you know? How can you be so sure?”
    He leans forward and puts his forearms on the table. “Because you’re telling me you didn’t do it. I know I didn’t do it. There’s a clue out there. We just haven’t found it yet.”
    “Maybe you’re not looking in the right places.”
    He points his fork at me. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
    “So where do we start?”
    He puts his fork down and sighs. “The cops have been over this house. They’ve been over the video camera of the two convenience stores on this block. They’ve been over the body. They’ve looked at you, and they’ve looked at me. No forced entry. No sign of a struggle. I’d been off for three nights, and then I was on, so whoever did it knew my schedule—or they got lucky.”
    “So what else is there?”
    He sighs. “That’s the problem, Tom. There is nothing else.”
     
    The cops might be pointing their fingers in the wrong direction, but that doesn’t mean they’re not being thorough.
    During interrogation, they’ve asked me about my father. Several times.
    I don’t have anything to tell them.
    If this had happened when I was young, when every day felt like a game of hide and seek, I might have shared in their suspicion. I didn’t keep anything about him a secret—there just wasn’t much to share.
    I remember nights when I could have sworn that my mother stayed up all night, sitting beside my bed.
    I remember days when she’d show up at school to check on me, worry lines permanently creased into her face. She’d ask the teachers if she could volunteer for the afternoon, and she wouldn’t leave my side for hours.
    This was all years ago. None of it is helpful. I never actually saw my father, not after we left him. My mother never verbalized her worries. She let me live my life, and I let her live hers.
    They asked if I knew of a way to contact him. That was almost laughable. I don’t even have a picture.
    I told them about the memory of the car and the alley and the promise to get ice cream.
    I might as well be reading from a paperback for as helpful as that is. It didn’t take the police long to tire of that angle. Why chase my father down when they had a prime suspect right in front of them?
    I asked what they thought would make me do such a thing.
    They said I did it because I resented her for marrying Stan.
    They asked over and over again where I hid her rings. They asked in different ways, hoping to trip me up, I guess. Are we going to find her wedding ring in your room, Tom? What did you do with her rings, Tom? Her rings are somewhere safe, aren’t they, Tom?
    For some reason, this bothers me more than the murder accusation. I asked Stan about it, why they’d think I’d rob my own mother of her jewelry, and he pointed to motive. He said it might be personal, removing the rings. It might be something someone would