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Deputy Hockaday is crammed in the turquoise vinyl armchair across from me, his gut
pushing against the buttons of his uniform. Every time he moves, the seat cushion makes a farting
sound. He keeps giving me these sad little smiles, like he feels sorry for me. Like he's on my side.
I'm not falling for his bullshit.
My mom's in the kitchen with Sheriff Joseph. I can hear the low murmur of their voices,
but I can't make out what they're saying. I wonder if Sheriff Joseph is giving my mom the same
little smiles. I wonder if he believes her.
My dad's in my parents' bedroom at the end of the hall. My mom wouldn't let me see
him after it happened, but I bet there's a lot of blood on the carpet. A gray-haired woman is in
the bedroom too. Deputy Hockaday called her a "crime scene tech." Like on TV.
He leans forward in his chair now and the seat cushion farts again. "So, Kayla," he says,
clicking his pen, "about how long between the time you went outside and the time you heard the
gun go off?"
I'm playing with one of the loose threads growing out of the arm of the sofa. "A half
hour, I guess."
He scratches something in his small notebook. "What were you doing out there?"
"Just looking at the stars."
"Oh? What'd you see tonight?"
He's trying to test me. Fine. Let him. "Vega and Deneb and Altair. They form this thing
called the Summer Triangle. And Antares. It's a red supergiant star that's in the Scorpius
constellation."
He writes in his notebook some more. "You've got a telescope?"
"For my birthday this year." My fifteenth.
"Did you make a wish on one of those stars?" He asks me the question in a casual,
friendly way, but it's all part of his act.
I shake my head. The less I say, the better.
"So you hear a gunshot and then run back toward the house. What did you think
happened?"
"I didn't think. I just sort of . . . reacted." I pull my knees up to my chest. I'm suddenly
cold, even though I'm wearing a sweatshirt. Even though it's August and the house is plenty
warm.
"That's pretty brave of you." Deputy Hockaday scratches his baby-fat cheek. "And then
your mom meets you at the back door and tells you she shot your dad?"
"Yeah." The word comes out like a frog's croak.
"Tell me about the gun, the .38 Special. Where'd your dad keep it?"
"In the drawer beside the bed." I pick at my nail polish. Mon Cherry, it's called.
"Loaded or unloaded?"
"I think it was always loaded."
Deputy Hockaday jots this down. "Okay, now about your folks . . ." He gives me
another fake sympathy smile. "Did your dad get violent with your mom very often?"
"I don't know."
"Once a month? Once a week?"
I shrug.
"Had he used a belt before?"
I shrug again, trying not to think about my mom's stifled cries. Trying not to think about
the belt tearing into her skin.
"Kayla, I know this is tough," he says, "but whatever you can tell me will really help."
Help who? My mom? Me? What a bunch of shit.
"How long has all this been going on?"
"Since I was about nine." I keep picking at my nail polish. I can't seem to stop myself.
"Six years? That's a long time."
An eternity, I'd say.
My mom and Sheriff Joseph are still together in the kitchen talking. How long before the
questions stop?
"Did your dad ever hit you?" Deputy Hockaday asks.
I look up. "No. Never."
"Why didn't your mom ever call us to report the abuse?"
"I don't know."
"Well, what do you think was going through her head?"
"Maybe . . . maybe she was ashamed," I say. "Maybe she didn't think anyone would
believe her, or they'd tell her it was her fault. Or maybe he threatened to kill her if she told
anyone." I look away. I’ve said too much.
The chair cushion farts again. Or maybe Deputy Hockaday is the one who's making the
sound. "It's a real shame she didn't call us. We could've protected her. And your dad would still
be alive. Are you sorry he's dead?"
I force myself to make eye contact. "Of course," I say. Because that's what I should say.
"Anything else you want to tell me?"
"Like what?"
"Whatever you want." More sympathy smiling.
I shake my head.
He knows I'm hiding something. Although my mom and I rehearsed everything, I'm not a
very good liar. But I remind myself he can't prove a thing.
Deputy Hockaday and Sheriff Joseph and the crime scene tech can't prove that my dad
never hit my mom. They can't prove that my mom shot my dad because she found out what he
was doing to me, and then I hit my mom with one of her old leather belts until she told me it was
okay to stop. None of them can prove that I got my wish tonight.
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