Free Time of Death by Shirley Kennett

the Internet as his web, information thrumming along the strands to the center, where he felt the sensations with his eight feet.
    “Keypunch? You fall back asleep?”
    “No, I was just imagining you as a spider.”
    “You definitely need to get out more.”
    “Hah! If only,” she said. “I seem to spend more time in the company of the dead than the living.”
    “I told you Schultz wouldn’t make a good lover. But did you listen?”
    PJ chuckled. “Stay out of my sex life.”
    “Is there any to stay out of?”
    Not much, lately. “Changing the subject, have you heard of the body found on the riverfront?”
    “The guy with no dick? I thought we were staying out of your sex life.”
    “Merlin!”
    “Yeah, I’ve heard about that murder,” Merlin said. “Are you sure you’re old enough to handle these sex cases? After all, there was the time when …”
    “When I had to put back the beer I was trying to buy. That’s beyond lame.”
    PJ knew there were legal issues with her discussing an open case in detail with a man she couldn’t identify. She might have passed Merlin on the street and not known it. But all that was beside the point. He was a sympathetic ear, and she trusted him. She poured out all the recent events.
    When she finished, he was quiet for a time.
    “June could have hired someone to go to Kansas City for her to establish an alibi. It would be tricky, but it could be done.”
    PJ sighed. “I felt sorry for June at first. Now I don’t know what to make of her.”
    “Psychos can be very charming when they want to. You should know that.”
    Before she could respond, her office door burst open and Schultz strode in.
    “Good, you’re awake. A bloody knife was found during the search of May Simmons’s home,” he said. “It’s got her husband Frank’s fingerprints on it and Arlan Merrett’s blood. We found the murder weapon.”

Chapter 9
    DEAR DIARY,
    These are things that happened to me, cross my heart and hope to die.
    The earliest memory I have of my sister is from a time when I’m two years old. She is considered responsible enough to baby-sit for me while our parents have a getaway. All I know is that they are leaving and that I’m going to be alone with my sister. I hear my momma say that big word a lot, “responsible.”
    I’m terrified that I will die before they come back.
    As soon as they drive away in the black car, she ties me in my booster seat. When I try to wiggle free, the rope or tape — I don’t know now — cuts into my arms, so I cry. I am sitting across from her at the table, big tears rolling down my cheeks and my throat hurting from crying. She’s eating something that I want, because I’m hungry, too. My parents are gone and I don’t think I will see them again, or get something to eat because my stomach hurts.
    When she’s done eating, she leaves. Then I cry harder because I don’t want to be alone. She’s gone for a long time, a forever time.
    When she comes back, she has a pretzel for me. I love pretzels. I like to bite them because my mouth hurts sometimes. Momma says I am a big girl, getting new teeth. I want the pretzel. She puts it on the table but doesn’t untie my hands. I try to reach it with my mouth, I reach far and then stretch some more. My tongue touches the pretzel. That’s when something bad happens. The chair with my booster seat on it falls over, and me with it. Suddenly I am sideways on the floor, still tied in the seat and screaming. Screaming.
    Everything moves very fast when she pulls the chair up hard, and that scares me some more. But now she seems sorry. She cuts whatever is holding my hands and gives me the pretzel. I don’t remember what happens next.
    Later I am crying for Momma and my sister puts something in my mouth to make me stop. It smells bad and I choke on it. She puts me on the bed and pulls my clothes off. I stay there looking up at her as she moves around the room. I remember she’s humming.
    The next thing I