I Couldn’t Remember Hearing Anyone Come Back Upstairs

that smelled like industrial detergent.

Mom kept one hand on my knee.

Dad wore the exact same church-cleanup T-shirt he’d fallen asleep in and looked ten years older than he had at dinner.

The detective’s name was Pruitt. Mid-fifties. Crooked tie. Burn scar on one wrist. He asked questions in a voice so plain it almost made me trust him.

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