Anybody's Child - Michelle Kidd (icecream ebook reader txt) 📗

bedroom just like Mommy does when Charleigh falls asleep.

She settles down, thankful he doesn’t hit Mommy or make her cry this time, but she wishes he would hurry up and leave. The closet smells like mothballs, and it’s hard to breathe, and now she needs to use the bathroom. She wiggles to keep from wetting her pants.

A sudden knock causes her to stop and sit up on her heels. She presses an eye to the crack and watches Mr. Gerganous leave Mommy’s room.

“Come in boys. She’s back here.” He opens the door and lets two men inside. The first one is not so big. He’s an ugly little man. His face has lumps and bumps like the back of a toad. A camera hangs from his neck, and he carries more camera stuff. The other stranger is handsome, like the guys Mommy watches on her afternoon soaps, except he has a scar on his cheek. His tiny, dark eyes glitter as he looks around the room.

Charleigh shivers.

Mr. Gerganous slaps his hands together. “Let’s make some money, boys.”

Hours later, Charleigh hasn’t moved from the closet. She hasn’t been to the bathroom, but now, she doesn’t need to.

 

Chapter 9 – Beth

The smell of stale coffee assaulted Beth when she walked into the police station early the next morning. For the second time in less than forty-eight hours, she found herself in the midst of chaos. Her sleep-deprived senses stretched beyond the breaking point. The clamor of telephones chirping, raucous laughter, and voices blended to make her head spin. She wasn’t sure how she’d survive another day of this.

She followed her dad as he weaved his way through the maze of cubicles and entered a different room than the day before—this one was just as ugly and stifling.

Beth clenched her teeth while Dad and Arnold exchanged pleasantries. It didn’t make sense. How could Dad be jittery one moment, then launch into his good ol’ boy routine around his buddies?

Emotions didn’t come with a control knob to be turned on and off. At least hers didn’t. Just yesterday, he’d seemed plenty scared when Arnold showed up at their house. Today, he was slapping the man on the back and having a doughnut. Was it all an act? If so, which guise was real?

This morning, Arnold wore a sharply creased pinstriped shirt. It fit his upper body tightly enough to show off the muscles beneath. Was this a warning to any criminal who dared get out of line? Beth noted a pair of cufflinks in the shape of tiny handcuffs on either wrist. He flashed his dimples at her with a 100-watt smile. She bit her lip and fought the urge to roll her eyes.

 “Thank you both for coming in this morning. I understand it’s been a rough two days.” Arnold’s voice was light, almost cheerful, as he offered Beth a pastry from the half-emptied box. She shook her head while he continued. “I’d like to go over a few things about the investigation. I have several follow-up questions for you, Beth.”

He seemed more like a charismatic preacher than the tough-as-nails detective from yesterday. Maybe that’s how he wore people down—by keeping them off balance.

Arnold rattled off the details of the case, most of which Beth found too technical to follow. Her father, on the other hand, bobbed his head with understanding. She’d have to ask him what it all meant later. Nothing so far about her fingerprints. Maybe it wasn’t as big a deal as you see on TV. She let herself relax slightly until a knock brought the discussion to a halt.

“May I see Deputy Shannon?” A fresh-faced officer poked his head around the door. His Adam’s apple jerked as he looked in sheepishly.

Beth’s stomach clenched. Surely, Dad wouldn’t leave her alone. He seemed to sense her hesitation as his eyes oscillated from her to Arnold.

“I won’t be but a minute.” He started to rise.

Beth reached to stop him. “But, Dad—”

“It will be okay. I’ll be down the hall. Detective Arnold would like to ask you a few questions alone.” A look flickered between her father and Arnold—a warning? Had they talked about this before the meeting? Why did Beth feel as if she’d been thrown to the wolves?

Dad gave her outstretched hand a squeeze. “Don’t be afraid. Just tell him the truth. We’ll get this guy, Beth.” He nodded to Arnold and followed the rookie into the hall. The door clicked with all the resounding finality of a funeral hymn.

Alone. Alone with the enemy. Seconds from a panic attack, Beth almost bolted. Sheer willpower held her to the chair. Those piercing, blue eyes made her insides shift uncomfortably. The light from above glinted off his glasses as he peered at her over the top of his frames.

“Now Beth, I realize you don’t want to be here. We got off on the wrong foot yesterday, but despite appearances, no one’s out to get you. I want to give you the opportunity to give us your side of the story.”

Story? What was that supposed to mean? She resented his choice of words as well as the implication in his voice. It wasn’t a story—she was telling the truth. Anger coiled deep inside her and unexpectedly struck with an intensity that took her by surprise. She wanted to lash out at something. The unfairness of it all nearly choked her. The murder, the interrogation, her father abandoning her. This guy with his yo-yo personality. She’d had enough.

She snorted. “You’re right, I don’t want to be here, and I don’t like you. Why are you harassing me when you should be out trying to catch my mom’s killer?” She crossed her arms and slumped in the wooden chair.

“There we go. Now that’s more like it!” He sat up straight and slapped a hand flat on the table. “There’s that fire. You had me worried, Beth. If I’d been through all you had, and some old codger started badgering me, I’d have told him where to go from Jump Street.”

Beth cut her eyes at him. “I’m not you.” Was this guy nuts or still playing a cat-and-mouse game with her?

“No, but you and I want the same thing.” He chuckled, apparently catching the daggers she threw his way. “No, I have no intention of dropping dead.”

She shifted in the seat and kicked the edge of her straight-legged chair. She hated his ability to read her. Pity he wasn’t smart enough to see she had nothing to do with her mother’s murder.

“Beth, I can be your best friend or your worst nightmare. I’d much rather we help each other out. I pushed hard to talk with you alone.”

“Why?” Beth was past being polite. “I told you everything yesterday.”

“Well . . . yeah.” He pulled at his chin. “But you remember I mentioned I like puzzles.”

She wanted to scream; the puzzle analogy was getting old fast.

“The pieces you’re giving me don’t fit.”

“What more do you want me to tell you? I woke up, heard a noise, went to check it out, and that’s when I found my mom.”

“Where did you find her . . . in the bed?”

“I told you; she was on the floor.”

He nodded. “Right, right . . . the telephone was there beside her. And you’re sure about that?”

“Yes, she must have tried calling for help.”

“Interesting.” He tapped his finger. “You think your mother tried to reach the phone after someone cut her throat.”

Beth shivered at the callous tone.

“Tell me, Beth, are you aware how long it takes for a person to die once the carotid artery has been cut?”

Horrified, Beth’s mind pulsed with the memory. “No,” she whispered.

“It’s a gruesome thing to see . . . it takes between thirty seconds to a full minute. And that person doesn’t die quietly. Oh, no! Once the trachea is severed, the brain can no longer receive oxygen or blood. The victim eventually dies from blood loss and lack of oxygen . . . but that whole time they are struggling and gasping for breath . . . choking, strangling on their own blood.” He shuddered. “It isn’t pretty.”

“Stop it!” Beth shot out of the chair. “Stop! What’s wrong with you!” She couldn’t stop shaking.

“Do you need a minute?”

Like the stillness of leaves dropping in the woods, Detective Arnold’s voice fell to a hush. It lost that patronizing edge. Something in the tone pulled her from the brink. She nodded and accepted the tissue he offered.

“I’m sorry, Beth . . . but the idea your mother was calling for help doesn’t work for me. The phone had to have been knocked off earlier. Maybe there was a fight. She attempted to dial 9-1-1. You tried to stop her. Sometimes things get out of hand in an argument, don’t they?”

“What are you saying?” Tears clogged her throat.

“I’m saying that sometimes in the heat of the moment things happen—things we never plan.” He allowed the implications of his words to sink in before pressing on. “I need to be honest, I’ve got enough evidence to take to the prosecutor’s office right now. We have videotape of you begging your mom’s forgiveness when I stepped out of the room yesterday. To a prosecutor, that’s as good as a confession. We have the murder weapon with your prints on it—buried in your closet. Eyewitnesses testified you and your mother were fighting the afternoon before the homicide. I want to help you, but you’ve got to give me something more to go on. Either you did this, or someone is trying hard to make us believe you did.” He wheeled the chair to a box that had been sitting in the corner, extracted a bag, and slid it across the table. “Recognize this?”

Shocked, she realized it was the bag Wiseman had shown her yesterday.

“Tell me, Beth, how’d your prints get on this knife?”

She didn’t want to look at it—didn’t want to think about it used in the way Detective Arnold described.

“I can’t help you unless you help me.”

She swallowed and forced her eyes to the plastic bag. Wait! She did recognize it. It was one of the ones with the black handles Aunt Tammy had given them two Christmases ago. Why hadn’t she noticed it yesterday? The knife had been from their own kitchen!

“. . . it’s from our kitchen. I-I guess everyone’s prints should be.”

“Try again.”

She rubbed her sweaty palms down her jeans. Think, Beth, think! “Wait! I do remember. I was upset after . . . well . . . you know, fighting with Mom. I went to my room and missed supper. After everyone had gone to bed, I sneaked down to grab an apple and took it and the knife back to my bedroom.”

“O-kay. But how did this knife transform from a simple kitchen utensil to the weapon used to kill your mother? Why was it hidden in the bottom of your closet?”

“I don’t know how—I swear.” Beth sensed the panic in her voice. “You have to believe me.”

“I want to, but what you’re saying doesn’t make sense. You tell me there were two sounds. One, coming from downstairs and the other from your mom’s room. Can you describe the noise inside the bedroom?”

“I’m not sure.” Beth rubbed her temples.

“Did it sound like