Free Someone Must Die by Sharon Potts

words. Boogers.
    She transferred fruit salad to a plate with a few cheese sticks and a bag of carrots, then went upstairs.
    A vague smell like vomit hit her when she opened the door to her mother’s room.
    Mama was in a fetal position on top of the patchwork quilt, eyes closed. She was surrounded by mail and magazines, her phone close to her open hand. Her shoulder-length dark hair was uncombed, and her white button-down blouse was badly wrinkled and damp, as though she had spilled water on herself. The blouse looked like the one her mother had been wearing the previous day in the photo at the carnival. It was Mama’s typical uniform—white shirt and jeans—but Aubrey wondered whether her mother had bothered changing her clothes since yesterday.
    The scene before her reminded her of those times when she was a child, and then again when Dad left eight years ago—her mother curled up in bed, eyes squeezed shut against some terrible pain.
    Aubrey would darken the room and put cool washcloths on her head, whispering over and over, Mama, please be okay .
    “Mama?” she said softly. “Are you sick?”
    Her mother blinked. She seemed to be trying to focus on one point, as though the room were spinning.
    “Is it the vertigo?”
    “I was a little dizzy, but it stopped.”
    “I brought you some food.”
    “No, thank you.”
    “You have to eat.”
    Her mother sighed, then propped herself up against the brass headboard. She took the plate and fork and fed herself a few bites.
    Aubrey sat down on the bed. “I just spoke to Special Agent Smolleck.”
    Her mother toyed with a cheese stick.
    “He asked a lot of questions about our family. About Dad and Jonathan.”
    “Jonathan?” Mama’s head swung up. “Why was he asking about Jonathan?”
    She was surprised by her mother’s defensiveness. “It makes sense that the FBI would consider the Supreme Court angle,” Aubrey said. “Has Jonathan mentioned any enemies to you?”
    Her mother shook her head, then put the plate of food on the nightstand.
    “Smolleck also asked about the family of the little boy who died. Do you think it’s possible the Coles kidnapped Ethan to get back at you?”
    “I don’t know, Aubrey.” She lay back down.
    Something was definitely wrong. A half hour before, her mother had been sharp and alert, very much herself, despite the trauma of Ethan’s disappearance, but now she was exhibiting signs of deep depression.
    “Did something just happen?” Aubrey asked. “Did Dad come in here when I was downstairs and say something that upset you?”
    “Please let me be.” Her voice was flat. “I want to sleep.”
    Aubrey glanced at the mail strewn over the bed. Bills, flyers, and magazines, but something was missing. She thought back to her mother aligning the envelopes earlier. A square white one had stuck out above the others. She had noted a stamp on the envelope, which suggested a personal letter or card, but hadn’t thought more about it.
    Until now.
    She surveyed the mail on the patchwork quilt, but the square envelope wasn’t on the bed with the others. Had there been a ransom demand? That would bring them a step closer to getting Ethan back.
    “Mama?” she said. “Was there something in the mail?”
    Her mother opened her eyes and searched Aubrey’s, as though she wanted desperately to communicate something. Then she shook her head.
    Whatever had happened while Aubrey was downstairs with the FBI agent, it was clear that Mama wasn’t willing to talk about it—at least not here in the house.
    Aubrey breathed in the smell of vomit. She needed to get her mother away from here to somewhere less toxic. To a place where her mother would feel safe and tell her what was terrifying her.
    For Ethan’s sake, she needed to do it quickly.

C HAPTER 9
    They walked in silence toward the park, along the route Aubrey used to take on her bicycle, zigzagging through narrow streets of dense foliage, past old wood-frame and stucco houses, then down