Free Father of Lies by Brian Evenson

it already,” my eldest says.
    â€œGo upstairs and brush your hair,” says my wife.
    â€œIt’s combed,” she says. “See?”
    â€œIt doesn’t look combed,” my wife says. “Comb it again. Go on.”
    â€œMom!”
    I put down my fork. “Listen to your mother,” I say. “Upstairs.”
    My daughter makes a show of leaving, smashing her chair back into the wall, looking at us to see what we will say, climbing the stairs slowly, backwards, looking at us the whole time.
    â€œYou boys too,” my wife says. “Go upstairs and get ready for school.”
    â€œI’m still eating, Mom,” says Jack.
    â€œGo,” she says. “And wash your face.”
    Mark goes and Jack follows, groaning. My wife pulls Jack’s plate onto the tray of our youngest’s high chair. Our youngest takes up the plate, clatters it onto the floor. My wife gropes absently under the table for it, her eyes still on me, the baby grabbing at the clip in her hair.
    â€œWho killed her?” my wife says.
    â€œI shouldn’t say anything,” I say. “Clergy’s confidentiality.”
    â€œTell me anyway.”
    â€œI don’t know for certain,” I say. “If I tell you, I don’t want to hear it from the neighbors when I get home tonight.”
    â€œDon’t worry,” she says. “I’ll keep it to myself.”
    â€œI think it was her brother,” I say.
    â€œHer brother?”
    â€œHe got her pregnant. She told me herself.”
    â€œHer own brother?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWas it a half-brother?”
    â€œHow should I know? Would that make a difference? I think he was her full brother.”
    â€œLord, that is awful,” she says. “But if he is capable of incest, he’s capable of murder.”
    â€œWe don’t know for certain he did it,” I say. “We shouldn’t judge the boy.”
    â€œNo,” she says. “I guess not.”
    She opens the paper again, reading down the column, the picture of the girl in the clearing riding beside her thumb, staring at me. The girl is faceup in the photograph, though my recollection is facedown. I left her facedown, her body anyway. They’ve moved her head back around, away from where I left it, made it look still attached, ruining the tableau.
    A pretty piece of work, if I do say so myself. But she’s saved. I’ve done her a favor.
    â€œWhat are you going to do?” my wife asks.
    â€œGo to the office. I should have left already.”
    â€œAbout this, I mean,” she says, tapping the girl’s face. “About the brother.”
    â€œI can’t prove any of it.”
    â€œYou should mention the brother to the police,” she says.
    â€œDon’t tell me what to do,” I say. “I imagine they’ll figure it out on their own.”
    â€œGo to them today,” she says.
    â€œI shouldn’t have brought it up,” I say. “Forget I said anything.”

CHAPTER 3
    Bus
    I am proofreading a contract when a man chooses to sit next to me, although the bus is empty. He wears a white button-down shirt, a burgundy tie, a dark suit. He nods to me as he pulls his briefcase onto his lap, springing the catches, opening it up. He takes out the morning paper, unfolds the body of the dead girl.
    â€œMorning,” he says.
    â€œPardon?” I say.
    â€œMorning,” he says. “As in good morning.”
    â€œYes,” I say. “Good morning.”
    â€œOr as in bad morning,” he says.
    I shrug.
    â€œOr as in mourning the dead,” he says, tapping the girl’s face.
    â€œYes,” I say. “Terrible tragedy.”
    â€œNo need to hold pretense with me,” the man says. “Don’t you recognize me?”
    â€œI’m afraid I can’t place you.”
    â€œCan it be you’ve forgotten me?” he asks. “Even after last night?”
    â€œI