Thicker Than Water

by Brigid Kemmerer

  I don’t think he did it. But I can’t be sure.

  Stan breaks the eye contact first. He slices into another piece of chicken. “Charlotte Rooker doesn’t think you did it either,” he says. “You want to interrogate her next?”

  I wouldn’t mind five minutes to ask her a few questions about what happened in the woods. “I’m not interrogating you,” I say.

  “But you’d like to,” he says. “Go ahead.”

  “What?”

  He looks up again. “I said, go ahead. If you need to clear me in your own way, go ahead.”

  I swallow. I expected a fight. Maybe I wanted a fight. He’s taken me by surprise again.

  People don’t usually surprise me. Definitely not twice in one day.

  When I don’t say anything, he pushes food around his plate again. “I loved your mother, kid.” He hesitates, and emotion weighs down his words. “Sometimes I wonder what she saw in me, because I’m almost fifty years old, and I’m pretty set in my ways. When I bought a ring, I wanted to do some big proposal. Go to a ballgame and write it on a scoreboard. Hire a skywriter. I don’t know.”

  I swear he’s almost blushing, but at the same time he sounds like his voice might crack and he’ll cry. I hold my breath and don’t move.

  “She was so unassuming,” he says. “So simple. In a good way, you know?”

  I know. How could I not know?

  He looks at me. “Of course you know.”

  “Of course,” I agree. My voice is hollow.

  “I had all these plans, but when I had the ring in my pocket, I couldn’t wait. She was coming over to cook me dinner. I didn’t even let her get in the door.”

  I laugh, but there’s a hitch of a sob in there with it. “She thought you set that up. She thought you let her think she was coming over to cook dinner, but you planned to propose.”

  “Really?”

  I nod. “She thought you were going to propose at the table, but you couldn’t wait.”

  I remember when she told me, the following day. She spent the night, of course. They’d gotten to that point, and I was almost eighteen years old, and more than capable of staying home on my own. I could think more carefully about that, but I don’t need my mind to draw any pictures, thank you very much.

  Especially not now.

  It was more practical anyway. We used to live two hours away from here, so it wasn’t worth driving all that way just for an evening. When they first started dating, they used to meet in Annapolis and go to one of the chain restaurants there, followed by a movie. It was all so high school. Mom loved it.

  She met Stan online. I knew something was up when she’d stay up late at night, giggling over the ancient desktop we kept in the corner.

  Stan’s lost in the memory. His eyes look damp.

  I clear my throat. “I didn’t mean to interrogate you,” I say, my voice rough.

  “It’s all right, Tom. I’ve got questions, too.”

  Immediately, my defenses click back into place. “For me?”

  “No. For everyone.” He waves a hand around. “Like you said, everyone thinks you did it. If you didn’t, everyone is on the wrong path.”

  My eyebrows go up. “Can you do anything?”

  “You mean, can I assist with the investigation?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No.” He gives a heavy sigh and picks up his fork again. “Conflict of interest. And I’m not going to be investigating much of anything for at least a few days.”

  “Why not?”

  He takes a sip of his beer. “Because I filed a harassment complaint against Charlotte Rooker’s brothers, and the commanding officer thinks it would be best if I went on administrative leave until official charges are filed.”

  Holy crap. There’s the third surprise. You could knock me out of this chair with a feather. He’s dropped this news so unassumingly, like we’ve already had a conversation about this.

  I cough. “You what?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Is that how you got me out of there?”

  He nods and takes another bite of chicken.

  I blink at him. “You filed a harassment complaint? Seriously?”

  He looks at me, and his eyes show a spark of anger for the first time. “Yes. Seriously. Maybe what happened beside the church was a misunderstanding, but for them to come after you in the woods like that . . . that should never have happened.”

  My stomach sinks. “So you think it might have been a setup, too.”

  “Charlotte is a nice girl. I’ve known her family for years. I don’t think she set it up.” He snorts. “You can’t exactly fake insulin shock.”

  There’s more to say. I can hear it. “But?”

  He shrugs a little. “I think maybe her brothers thought they’d catch you doing something that would stick. I told them you were out by her grave. I didn’t know Charlotte was out there, but they did.”

  I scowl and stab at my chicken. “And I thought Danny was a prick.”

  “That one wants a moment in the spotlight. It’s probably a good thing he wasn’t the one to find you with her. You stay away from him, Tom. You hear me?”

  I snort. “Gladly.”

  “I’m not kidding.”

  “I’m not either. I don’t want anything to do with any of them.”

  His fork goes still on his plate. His voice takes on a knowing tone. “Not even Charlotte?”

  I think of the way she felt when her body crashed into mine. All curves and warmth and vanilla and sugar.

  When she was unconscious. I’m such a freak.

  I take a bite of chicken. “No girl is worth getting shot over.”

  He laughs. “You might change your mind about that one day, kid.”

  Then it’s like he realizes he laughed, and the comment hangs out there. We fall silent for a while, eating our food. The kitchen clock ticks away the minutes.

  “They’re not going to solve it, are they?” I finally say.

  Stan doesn’t say anything, so I glance up. “It’s been too long, without any leads,” I say. “That’s why they’re putting all the pressure on me. You’ve got to lock someone up.”

  “That’s not how investigations work,” he says. “We don’t lock someone up because it’s convenient.”

  My eyes narrow. “So you’re saying everyone in prison is one hundred percent guilty? They’re not there because the community needed someone to punish, just to prove that the bad guy was off the streets?”

  “You’re making me out to be a prosecutor, a defense attorney, and a judge,” Stan says. “I’m none of those things. All I can tell you is what I do, Tom. Not any of those other people.”

  “But there’s nothing left to investigate. Your house has been cleaned up. The murder is almost a week old. There are no clues. It’s me or nothing, isn’t it?”

  “There has to be something left,” he says.

  “How do you know? How can you be so sure?”

  He leans forward and puts his forearms on the table. “Because you’re telling me you didn’t do it. I know I didn’t do it. There’s a clue out there. We just haven’t found it yet.”

  “Maybe you’re not looking in the right places.”

  He points his fork at me. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “So where do we start?”

  He puts his fork down and sighs. “The cops have been over this house. They’ve been over the video camera of the two convenience stores on this block. They’ve been over the body. They’ve looked at you, and they’ve looked at me. No forced entry. No sign of a struggle. I’d been off for three nights, and then I was on, so whoever did it knew my schedule—or they got lucky.”

  “So what else is there?”

  He sighs. “That’s the problem, Tom. There is nothing else.”

  The cops might be pointing their fingers in the wrong direction, but that doesn’t mean they’re not being thorough.

  During interrogation, they’ve asked me about my father
. Several times.

  I don’t have anything to tell them.

  If this had happened when I was young, when every day felt like a game of hide and seek, I might have shared in their suspicion. I didn’t keep anything about him a secret—there just wasn’t much to share.

  I remember nights when I could have sworn that my mother stayed up all night, sitting beside my bed.

  I remember days when she’d show up at school to check on me, worry lines permanently creased into her face. She’d ask the teachers if she could volunteer for the afternoon, and she wouldn’t leave my side for hours.

  This was all years ago. None of it is helpful. I never actually saw my father, not after we left him. My mother never verbalized her worries. She let me live my life, and I let her live hers.

  They asked if I knew of a way to contact him. That was almost laughable. I don’t even have a picture.

  I told them about the memory of the car and the alley and the promise to get ice cream.

  I might as well be reading from a paperback for as helpful as that is. It didn’t take the police long to tire of that angle. Why chase my father down when they had a prime suspect right in front of them?

  I asked what they thought would make me do such a thing.

  They said I did it because I resented her for marrying Stan.

  They asked over and over again where I hid her rings. They asked in different ways, hoping to trip me up, I guess. Are we going to find her wedding ring in your room, Tom? What did you do with her rings, Tom? Her rings are somewhere safe, aren’t they, Tom?

  For some reason, this bothers me more than the murder accusation. I asked Stan about it, why they’d think I’d rob my own mother of her jewelry, and he pointed to motive. He said it might be personal, removing the rings. It might be something someone would do if they weren’t happy with the wedding.

  He gave me a pointed look when he said that part.

  Here’s what doesn’t look good for me: I wasn’t happy with the wedding.

  Not for any weird reasons. I don’t have mommy issues. I wanted her to be happy.

  So even though I wasn’t thrilled with the wedding, I wasn’t unhappy, either. I thought it was too fast, but she’s an adult, and she can make her own decisions. Mom and Stan didn’t date long. Just a few months. Then he popped the question, and a month later they signed a marriage license at City Hall.

  I had a problem with moving here.

  I had just graduated from high school, and I had plans. Nothing big, but plans. I had friends. A job. A routine.

  I didn’t have the means to stay there on my own. Mom dragged me out to the middle of nowhere to tell me we were moving here. She sold it hard. Think of it, Tom. We’re surrounded by water. We’re less than an hour from Ocean City. This town is full of charm! You’ll love it. I know you’ll love it.

  I didn’t love it. I pitched a fit.

  Not for long. But enough to let her know I wasn’t happy.

  One of the detectives who first interrogated me, a guy named Eckels, I think, tried to buddy up. He told me about how his mom used to make him do things he didn’t want to do all the time, and he always wanted to punch her.

  I looked him dead in the eye and said that I’ve never hurt her. Not for this, not for anything.

  He didn’t appreciate my suggestion that maybe he should see a therapist if he still feels like punching his mother.

  My mind wanders back to my father. Those days of my mother moving through life in fear are long gone. She stopped visiting school and staying up all night when I turned twelve or thirteen. Years ago. She was on Facebook and posted regularly. She met Stan online, for god’s sake. Not exactly the movements of a woman hiding from a mysterious ex.

  I’ve long since thought he moved on. Or, considering her early fear of him, I occasionally wondered if he was dead.

  Even if he was alive and harboring some bizarre desire to have her back, how would he know to find her here? We’ve only lived in Garretts Mill for a few weeks. Half our boxes are still packed. She and Stan didn’t drag out their courtship, but it wasn’t that quick. If someone felt resentful about their relationship, why take action now?

  And if it wasn’t my father—which is already ridiculously far-fetched—who the hell did it?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHARLOTTE

  There’s a news van outside my house in the morning. I don’t notice it at first—I’m not of the mind to inspect the front yard when I crawl out of bed.

  No, I find out when I’m coming down the stairs and my grandmother gasps.

  It takes a lot to tear her attention away from The View.

  “Pajamas?” she says. “With the local news on the front lawn? Charlotte. Get upstairs and put on something decent.”

  Let the record show that I’m wearing a T-shirt and cutoff sweatpants that used to belong to Ben. Not exactly a lace nightie.

  But I know how a fight will go, so I head upstairs to change. When I come back down, I find Mom making banana bread muffins, and she doesn’t seem too concerned that our house is under surveillance. Then again, she’s married to a police officer, and she’s watched her three sons follow in his footsteps, so maybe a little news van is nothing special.

  Still, it’s a big deal to me.

  “What does the news van want?” I ask.

  “To talk to you,” she says equably. A muffin pan is on the stove and she’s gently pulling the muffins free to cool them on a metal rack. She’s not looking at me, and I can’t tell if she’s still mad about yesterday.

  “Why?”

  A muffin sticks to the side of the pan, and she all but stabs it to get it free. “To figure out if you’re involved with that boy, or if you’re collaborating with your brothers to harass him.”

  So she’s still mad.

  I pull a jug of orange juice out of the refrigerator. “Why would I be doing either of those things?”

  The timer goes off and she yanks the second pan out of the oven, slamming it on the ceramic cooktop.

  “I don’t know, Charlotte. Why would you go off in the woods with a boy we all warned you to stay away from?”

  I don’t say anything to that. I take a drink of juice and reach for one of the muffins.

  She smacks my hand away. “Did you check your levels this morning?”

  “Of course.”

  “Your insulin?”

  “Of course.” Maybe next she’ll ask if I need a bottle and a diaper change. I reach for a muffin again, and she smacks my hand a second time. It’s hard enough to sting. Hard enough to make me realize that she’s still really mad.

  “Do you have any idea,” she starts, “what it felt like to hear that no one knew where you were—but then to hear that that boy was carrying you out of the woods? Unconscious, Charlotte. With a murderer. What were you thinking? What? Tell me.”

  “He hasn’t been convicted yet, so maybe we can stop calling him a murderer.”

  “That’s all you have to say to me? There are lots of people who haven’t been convicted yet, and I don’t want you associating with them either.”

  “I’m almost eighteen,” I say. “I’m not going to apologize for having a conversation with someone who missed his mother’s funeral because my brother has a stick up his—”

  “Charlotte.”

  “No, Ma, let her finish.” Danny enters the kitchen. He must be on duty soon because he’s in full uniform.

  I want to throw my glass of orange juice at him.

  “Go ahead,” he says, his eyes full of malicious taunting, and for a second I think he’s egging me on to soak him in Tropicana.

  But no, he’s asking me to finish my sentence. I smile sweetly. “I’m sure you can fill in the blank.”

  He gets a glass and pours his own glass of orange juice. “What’s with the news van?” he says. “Can’t wait to get a look at our Hester Prynne here?”

  “What are you even talking about?” I snap. “I didn’t sleep with anyone.”

  �
��Never said you did.”

  “That’s what The Scarlet Letter is about!”

  He shrugs and leans over to give our mother a kiss on the cheek, then grabs a muffin. She holds out a second one. “Take two if that’s all you’re eating.”

  Danny grins at me. “I didn’t really read it.”

  This is how he gets away with so much. He acts like a complete jerk, but then he flashes a charming smile, throws around some wicked humor, and people give him a pass.

  I glare at him. “The A is for Adultery, you jackass.”

  “Charlotte!” my mother gasps.

  Danny makes a tsking noise, grabs a third muffin, and heads out of the kitchen. “I’ll get the news van to leave,” he calls as he goes.

  Like he’s the chief of police or something. He’s lucky he doesn’t get a fourth muffin to the temporal lobe.

  I’m starving and I want one for myself, but my knuckles still sting from the first time I tried to take one. I wish Ben still lived at home. He’d be sneaking some up to my room, taking some of the edge out of my temper before I had to deal with my mother or my other brothers.

  I suppose I should be glad that my father isn’t home. He was fit to be tied last night.

  My mother is at the sink, washing dishes with a vengeance.

  I don’t want to apologize. I didn’t do anything wrong. They’re all overreacting. Especially the news van sitting outside.

  But she really was worried.

  I reach out for the sponge and the glass bowl. “Here. I can do that.”

  For an instant, I don’t think she’s going to relinquish anything. Mom is a total rage-cleaner. But she hands me the sponge.

  “Thanks,” she says grudgingly.

  The water is just this side of too hot, but I scrub away. “Why would they think I’m collaborating to harass Thomas?”

  She slams a cabinet door. “I don’t want to talk about this, Charlotte.”

  Well. Fine, then.

  I scrub in silence for a bit, while she lays out ceramic ramekins and various other cooking instruments. The tension begins to leach out of the room, so I try again.

  “What are you making?”

  “Chicken pot pies. Your father is working a double shift. I’ll take him one at lunchtime.”