Free Lying with the Dead by Michael Mewshaw

first blinding shot in what became a barrage. Questions splashed over me like water bursting from a hose. I ducked my head, but the flood of noise and the flashes didn’t stop.
    “Let’s go inside.” The detective hurried me along until he realized that I limped. Then he gentled me toward the front door.
    The living room, dining alcove, and kitchen were churning with cops, the rescue squad, a priest, a doctor, a man with a measuring tape, and a guy dusting for prints. I begged them to be careful. If anybody broke Mom’s knickknacks, there’d be hell to pay.
    The detective led me over to the new sofa. Covered in clear plastic, it was off-limits to Maury and me. When we watched TV, Mom made us sit on the floor. The sofa was reserved for grownups. I didn’t want to have to explain this to the detective. So I sat down and hoped Mom wouldn’t find out. The detective settled in beside me, and the plastic gave an embarrassing squeak under his butt.
    “Did they fight a lot?” he asked. “You can trust me, hon. Just tell the truth, and help us help your family.”
    Maury and I had been raised as close-mouthed as a Mafia clan. Whenever bookies or collection agents pounded at the door, we knew not to answer questions and never to blab about Dad’s whereabouts. For years he’d been in and out of hiding. So it shocked me to hear the detective say, “Your mother’s already told us plenty.”
    “Like what?”
    “Like they fought a lot.”
    That described Mom and Dad to a T. But I argued, “They don’t fight any more than other married couples.”
    “I’m not talking about your parents. It’s your brother. He and your father didn’t get along, did they?”
    I didn’t know what to say. With Dad and Maury, the fighting was all one way. Dad just didn’t have any patience with Maury’s quirks.
    The detective removed his hat. His large-pored face became blurry as my eyes teared up. “Did your brother threaten your father?” he asked. “Did he say he meant to hurt him?”
    “Maury never hurt anybody. He hated it when anyone hurt an animal, even a turtle. He doesn’t like to be touched, himself, and he doesn’t touch other people. Whenever Dad spanked him—”
    “Maury’d get mad?”
    “No, he’d fall into one of his fits.”
    “And do what?”
    “He’d moan on the floor and rock back and forth.”
    “What your mother tells us, he did a lot worse today. He stabbed your father.”
    I shook my head no.
    “He confessed.”
    I started screaming. Not saying words, just screeching. That brought Mom out of the bedroom. Blank-faced and slow, she led a procession of detectives down the stairs. There was blood on her hands, on her arms and the front of her blouse. She looked like the butcher at Safeway, gory in his apron behind the meat counter. When she came near, I cringed and kept screaming. She hugged me, and the blood was hot to touch.
    Only her eyes had expression. Compared to her empty face, they had every possible emotion in them, all at the same time. I was put in mind of staring out a window. On top of what you see through it, there’s your own image in the glass and a reflection from the wall behind you where a mirror shows the scene backward, and on and on. That’s how full Mom’s eyes were with panic and pain and sadness and anger.
    “Is Dad dead?” I asked.
    She nodded.
    “Maury killed him?”
    She cut her eyes to the detectives. She didn’t want to talk in front of them. “I gotta go to the police station and be with your brother.”
    “Let me go with you.”
    “You have to stay and look after the house. Go up to your room and wait there.”
    “How can I look after the house up there?”
    “Don’t argue, Candy. Just do what I tell you.”
    “One of my men’ll keep her company,” a detective said.
    “She’d rather be alone. Wouldn’t you?” Mom prompted.
    I had no choice but to trudge upstairs and change out of the clothes she had bloodied. I soaked my birthday dress in the bathroom