Shattered

by Sandra Madera

  * * *

  I didn’t get much sleep the night before. Every time I closed my eyes, I dreamed of the crash. I felt the car that I was driving slip on the black ice which covered the strip of road before me. Moving the wheel to the right, I struggled to regain control, finding myself veering off to the left. The hard turn caused the car to balance on the two right wheels. Then the car flipped, throwing me about like a leaf at the mercy of the wind.

  Jolted awake, I stared at the ceiling, wondering when the nightmare would end, but then I remembered the one thing that would never change... .my sister was dead.

  The idea that my sister might have been murdered was driving me insane. In my restlessness, these questions plagued me until I felt unable to stop my mind from racing with the possibilities. Who would want to hurt Nastasia? Why was she a target? Why would the detective come to the conclusion that there was foul play?

  Trying to still my thoughts, I sat up in bed, focusing my attention on the window across the room, and waited for daylight.

  When my boring beige bedroom began to illuminate with the bluish gray glow of dawn, I dressed and waited downstairs. After making a fresh pot of coffee, I walked into the living room. The room was painted beige just like every other room in the house. Even though the house was under-decorated, it held a warm and comfortable feeling. The rooms were covered in richly stained oak floorboards which added to the warmth. The doorways and windows were framed with the same wood, ornamented with a carved medallion at each corner.

  The living room was a large room that had windows which captured the front and side gardens. Opposite the threshold, there was a large wood-burning fireplace with a carved wooden mantle. Across from the front window and adjacent to the fireplace, there were two tan-colored couches, which were placed parallel to each other, with a coffee table in the middle. There were no accessories accenting the room. The walls and table tops were plain with little more than a layer of dust sitting atop them.

  Sharee tried to put her stamp on the house. She purchased clashing throw pillows in a zebra and leopard design which my father thought were quite interesting. He would have never picked them out himself, and although they were better placed in a college dorm room, he conceded to her design, knowing it would make her happy.

  Coming downstairs and seeing the pillows used to bring a smile to my face. The room was so plain that the wacky design stood out and looked out of place. Nastasia hated them, finding them over the top. I had to talk her out of ripping them up with a pair of scissors. I thought it was the design that irritated her senses, but now I believed it was the fact that my stepmother had picked it out. Sharee was stepping into her place as the lady of the house which was not kosher with my sister who resented my father’s marriage with a quiet disdain.

  I took my post by the front window, watching as the light dusting of the night before gave way to a full fledged snow storm. Large particles of snow fell from the sky as if slanted by the wind, gathering in large mounds that measured at least a foot high. The wind blew harshly, smoothing out the snow and howling against the windowpanes.

  “Good morning, honey,” my father greeted, giving me a kiss atop my head. He was put together, wearing khaki pants and a blue button-down shirt that complimented his eyes. As he poured himself a cup of coffee, he sighed, appearing stressed. It was obvious his night was as restless as mine.

  Taking a sip of my coffee, I saw the detective’s car pull up. “She’s here,” I announced, running to the front door.

  Before my father could react, I threw the door open just as Det. Conner climbed the front steps. The detective was a short woman, standing at just over five feet and appearing in her forties. She had mousy brown hair, pulled back into a bun, and dark eyes to match. She wore a heavy trench coat and plain clothes.

  She eyed me, appearing intrigued by my appearance. “Miranda?”

  I nodded, ushering her inside. “Please, come in.”

  Guiding her into the living room, she took a seat on the beige sofa, taking out a notepad and flipping through its pages. “So, you are a twin.”

  “I was a twin,” I told her somberly, taking a seat on the opposite sofa and placing my mug on the coffee table.

  My father stood by the doorway between the front hall and the living room, appearing nervous. He shifted his weight from foot to foot as if trying to decide if he should enter or exit the room. His mind was probably weighing if he wanted to hear what the detective had to say. Finally ending his interior battle, he walked into the room, taking a seat next to me.

  Det. Conner ignored his presence, focusing solely on me. “Where were you the night of the crash?” she asked me directly.

  Shrugging my shoulders, I answered, “I was home.”

  Her gaze never left me as if she expected me to say more.

  I continued, “I had loaded some pictures from my camera to my laptop after school while at the computer lab. They were for the school paper. Nastasia was in a rush to get home that day, and she came to get me. I threw my laptop in my bag, but I forgot my camera. I had to pick it up yesterday.”

  “Do you know why she was in a rush to get home? Did she appear agitated?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “No, not really. We did argue a bit. Well... after we got home and I realized I forgot my camera, I was furious at her, but she apologized. Later, I called school, getting the answering machine, and left a message for Mrs. Fayson so that she knew I left my camera. So everything worked out with that, I guess.”

  “Why didn’t you go back to the school to pick up your camera?”

  “It was after hours. I was sure the doors would be locked so I decided to work with what I had. I reviewed the pictures I had loaded and emailed some to my teacher.”

  Scribbling notes, she stopped and looked up at me momentarily. “Your teacher?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Fayson. She runs the school paper. I submitted some photos to her that night,” I told her. “It is not uncommon for me to do that.”

  “So, she can validate the receipt of those photos?”

  Confused, I nodded, narrowing my eyes at her and glancing at my father.

  “Where is this going, Det. Conner?” my father asked, looking from me to the detective. “You said you had new information concerning my daughter’s case. Why are you questioning us?”

  Ignoring my father’s question, she turned to him and asked, “And where were you that night, Mr. Moralez?”

  Thrown off by the question, his body jerked in his seat. “I was at the office all day,” he answered, running his hand through his raven-colored hair. “My wife and I had an anniversary. My wife picked me up in the evening, and we went out to dinner.”

  She turned her attention to me once more, probing me with her eyes. “Why did Nastasia go out that night?” she asked, writing some notes on her pad.

  “We ordered pizza,” I said, leaning forward in my seat. “Nastasia volunteered to pick it up.”

  She looked at me with a raised eyebrow. “Nastasia’s best friend, Britney Clarke, gave a statement. She said that Nastasia was having problems with, her boyfriend, Caleb Mitchell. She considered leaving him.”

  I shook my head. “Tasia didn’t really discuss her relationship with Caleb. She talked more about the parties she planned on going to than Caleb.”

  “Do you know if she planned on leaving him?”

  I fidgeted in my seat. “I don’t know. She didn’t talk about anyone else.”

  “Did she ever argue with him?”

  “No,” I answered. “I never hung out with them all that much, but I never noticed any arguments.”

  “Caleb is a good boy,” my father mentioned, seeing the direction of the conversation. “I am friends with his mother, and he is selfless when it comes to her.”

  Det. Conner nodded, flipping through some pages on her pad. “Was staying home unusual for Nastasia?”

  “Maybe,” I answered, con
templating the possibility.

  “Why didn’t you go with her to pick up the pizza?” she asked, raising a discriminating eyebrow at me.

  “I told you. I was loading pictures onto my computer.”

  “Can you tell us what is going on?” my father said, appearing frustrated by her questioning.

  “New evidence has been brought to light,” she said, looking at my father. “It appears the brakes were cut on the car Nastasia was driving.”

  Shifting in his seat uncomfortably, his complexion changed, becoming bright red with anger in a matter of seconds. “Could that have happened during the crash?” my father asked shrilly, his body tense.

  She shook her head slightly. “The brakes were cut with precision... as if sliced by a blade. If it were from the accident itself, the tubes would be shredded.”

  At a loss for words, I tried to absorb what was being said. My sister was murdered. Someone cut the brakes so that she would crash. Why? Why would anyone want to harm her? What would they benefit from her death?

  “Now we were told she was driving your car, Miranda.”

  Her words floated in the air between us until I could come out of my thoughts long enough to comprehend them. “Yes, my car,” I said with a nod. “Her car was in the shop. She was always out and about that it just made sense for her to borrow it. I stayed at home most days anyway.”

  “We looked into the car in the shop. She complained about it stalling,” Det. Conner volunteered. “It seems sugar was poured into the gas tank.”

  My father put his head in his hands, appearing ready to break down. With his complexion changing to dark crimson, his body shook, and I heard him sob as he covered his face from view.

  Cupping my arm around his shoulders, I held him close, trying to be as supportive as possible. “We didn’t know that.”

  “You wouldn’t have. I told the mechanic to report to me when we confiscated the car,” she told me matter-of-factly.

  I looked at her incredulously. “So, you have my sister’s car?”

  “It is evidence,” she said, standing up. “Cars that involve murders are usually put up for auction by the department after a trial. But seeing as how your sister was not killed in the car, you should receive it back after a conviction.”

  I couldn’t help but feel violated. My sister’s car was taken without our permission. Her best friend was questioned without our knowing. Who was this woman working for? Was she really out to bring resolution to our family or incriminate us? “Do you have any suspects?”

  “A few,” she said, making her way towards the door.

  Leaving my father to collect himself, I followed her. “Well, who?”

  “Caleb Mitchell is one,” she said, not sounding convinced on the direction of her investigation. “He dated your sister, and he worked at the auto body shop your sister’s car was brought into.”

  I scoffed, wondering if this woman was an idiot or goading me. “My father owns that shop. Where else would she have taken it?”

  “Well, our investigation leads us to believe there might have been blackmail,” she said quietly, standing at the main entrance and glancing back at my father. “There were large amounts of cash being transferred from your father’s bank account to Mr. Mitchell’s. We are looking into it.”

  I shook my head. “Caleb’s mother is sick. My father was helping the family with their financial troubles,” I told her, blowing holes in her theory. “That is why Caleb was helping out in the shop. He was covering his mother’s shift.”

  Handing me her card, she gave me a look of suspicion. “I might want to question your father about it at another time. When he is more up to answering questions, tell him to give me a call.”

  Accepting the card, I couldn’t believe that she would cast aside my word. She acted as if I was lying to her. She looked at me with suspicion as if I couldn’t be trusted. My sister was killed, and she looked at me as if I had something to do with it. “I am telling you the truth,” I said, fuming.

  Stepping out of the door, Det. Conner looked back at me and said, “I noticed how you didn’t cry when I told you that your sister had been murdered. That is really interesting.”

  I narrowed my eyes at her. “It takes a real vulture to attack the wounded, Det. Conner. I don’t know how you can sleep at night,” I said angrily.

  Turning around and stepping off the porch, she said, “With all due respect, Ms. Moralez, you don’t appear so wounded.”

  Feeling my anger about to boil over, I slammed the door shut and tore up her card, hoping to never see her again.