Free A Killing in Zion by Andrew Hunt

do you have that out?” she asked.
    I shrugged. “No reason. I’m just looking through it.”
    She reached over and squeezed my hand in hers. “You’re tormenting yourself again.”
    I tugged my hand free of hers.
    â€œI’m not. I just … I miss him. That’s all.”
    â€œIs that really all?”
    â€œWhat other reason would I have?”
    â€œLast time I found you looking through that scrapbook, you said something along the lines of you’ll never be able to measure up to him. Ring any bells?”
    â€œWhat’s your point?” I asked.
    â€œI don’t think it’s healthy, you turning him into a legend,” she said. “It’s like you’re competing with a phantom who will always outrun you.”
    â€œBecause I’m weak,” I said. “Is that what you’re saying?”
    â€œThat isn’t what I meant and you know it,” she said angrily. “Stop putting words in my mouth. You’re the last person I think of when I hear the word weak . I mean, my goodness, Art, how many police detectives do you know who’ve had their stories broadcast on an episode of Crime Does Not Pay ?”
    â€œThat was the Hollywood version of me,” I said. “Dad would’ve been able to see right through it.”
    â€œOh, Art, why do you do this to yourself?”
    â€œBecause there was nothing brave about what I did that night to Henry Grenache,” I said. “The entire time he had that gun aimed at me, I was terrified that he was going to actually shoot me, and I wasn’t ever going to see you or the children again. The only reason I came out of that ordeal in one piece was because there happened to be a tire iron within reach. That radio show made everybody think I was some kind of hero.…”
    â€œBut you are a hero!”
    â€œNo, I’m not,” I said. “It was just dumb luck and fast reflexes. Heroism never entered the picture at any point.”
    â€œThere you go again! Why do you always have to tear yourself down?” she asked. “It’s a rigged contest, Art, because you’re never going to let yourself win.”
    â€œIt’s different for you, Clara,” I said. “Your father is still alive.”
    â€œDon’t hand me that ‘you’ll never know, because it didn’t happen to you’ business,” she said. “That’s just your way of trying to shut me up. After all, how could I possibly know how you’re feeling when my dad is alive and well, and all I have to do is pick up the telephone and ring his house?”
    â€œI hope to God you never lose him the same way I lost mine, because nobody should ever have to experience what it’s like to not be able to say good-bye to someone who’s that important to you, to someone you love that much,” I said. “It’s twice as upsetting to know that he died so … in such a … well, that he died the way he did. Knowing the last thing he ever saw was his killer, and the last thing he ever felt was getting shot.”
    â€œSometimes I think you wish it’d been you instead of him,” said Clara. “But you’re here, and you’re alive, and you punish yourself with this foolish notion that you’ll never be half the man he was.”
    â€œI guess that’s my own particular demon,” I whispered.
    Clara’s arms, folded over her chest, rose and fell gently with each breath. I sensed she felt defeated by this conversation and couldn’t take any more arguing. So she changed the subject. “Why don’t you tell me about the two men you found tonight?”
    â€œAw, shoot, Clara, I told you I’d rather not.…”
    â€œI won’t go to bed until you do, and I won’t let you, either. Keep it short. But don’t leave out any of the important details. Go.”
    I recounted the crime scene to Clara,