Page 93

"No."

The detective places her hand over mine on the interview table. Her voice is soft with sympathy. “One of his pals turned it in as part of a plea deal. No one wants to go down when it comes to murder."

I fight back a smile.Loyalty, huh?

"Anyway," she says, "it outlined Dezmond's version of events, painted you as the killer. Looks like he was going to marry you, have you take the fall for what he did, then collect the lottery winnings that have been sitting untouched in the bank. No way he'd pull it off, but guys like him aren't as clever as they think.”

I make myself hang my chin to my chest, shaking like I'm suffering intense despair. “All this time he was the reason my dad was gone. I thought he loved me.”

“I know, dear. I saw his proposal. He put on a good show. Some people are just natural actors.”

She isn't wrong.

When Jordan walks into my living room he doesn't knock. He must have seen me through the window. I'm spinning the ceramic bowl that's been glued together in my fingers, but when he enters, I stop and look over it at him. “Hi,” I say.

“Hi,” he replies.

It's the first time we've been alone since Dez was arrested. We worried it would cause suspicion if we got too close too fast. But our days apart have been torture. The air molecules buzz between us; me sitting, him standing. I wave the bowl side to side. “You fixed this.”

“Yes,” he says.

A somber smile crosses my face. “You fixed everything.”

“Lorikeet …”

“Why?” I set the bowl down, rise from the chair, but go no closer to him. “I don't mean why did you help me. I know the answer.” That makes him smile with one side of his mouth. “Why did you go as far as you did?”

His shoe rocks forward, barely moving. My hamstrings bunch like I'm ready to run. “Because I promised I'd do whatever I had to in order to keep you safe. I'm sure it sounds insane. You don't have to understand, Lorikeet. I'm not asking you to.”

“No.” Inflating my ribs with a big breath, I walk into my kitchen. “Of course, I understand.” My fingers brush the sea glass embedded tiles. I count them one by one, and when I get to the last, I work my nails in to pry it free. I kept money hidden here.

I also kept something else.

Lifting out the pruning shears, I hold them loosely, like they might slice me open. It's easy to imagine; I saw them cut my mother's palms. The blood had made them slick, hard to hold onto, after the first few stabs. Over and over, unable to stop, because she knew if she did—if she held back an ounce—he'd survive and kill us both.

I shut my eyes at the torrent of memories. Mom's long, silvery hair turned cherry red from blood. It's splattered over her brown apron too. She was sobbing as she crouched above him on the dining room floor.

"I didn't have a choice," she cries to me on her hands and knees. The shears fall from her sliced palms, bounce off the stained floor. "He cornered me right after I walked inside. He was drunk, accused me of sleeping with someone behind his back, like I wasn't just returning from work. Then he started to choke me. He was going to kill me, Lori, he said he was! I was blacking out until he said he'd kill you too."

He was going to kill me? What had I ever done but loved him?

"He went on and on about a murder plot to steal his money … I pulled the shears out of my apron pocket and … I need your help. Please. Help me, Lori. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry."

Of course. It was always that fucking money with him.

I look up, around, considering the scene as panic transforms to cold disassociation. It's similar to the way I feel when working with clay. Acting without thought, instinct alone carrying me around the room to do what must be done.

"You can't tell anyone, Mom," I say firmly. Her eyes glisten as she stares up at me. "They won't believe it was self-defense. They'll arrest you, lock you away, and—and I won't let them do that. We're not going to suffer more from him." I roll my eyes to my father's dead body, quelling a wave of sickness. "Never again."

I tell her to go take a shower. While she does, I collect all the cleaning supplies we have. I'm efficient, I have the blood mopped—bleach fumes burn my eyes and nose—before mom is done showering.

I wash the shears, tuck them in my secret hole in the wall. I wrap my father in a tarp from an old roof leak we had, then haul him on it out to the backyard. He thumps down the stairs, making the railing jostle, and I remember, strangely, how he always insisted he'd fix that loose wood. He won't have a chance to anymore.

His body lies in the grass at the edge of our property. I sprint into the house to get a shovel. Mom is waiting in the kitchen, cleaned up, wearing a robe. The sight of her startles me.

Her hair. She's cut it all off. She sees me looking, puts her bandaged hand to her scalp with a forlorn smile. "I kept seeing his blood in it no matter how much shampoo I used," she whispers.

I want to hug her. There's no time. "Stay inside," I say. "Forget everything that happened. I'll lie until my final breath to keep this our secret, Mom. Just ours. Please."