No1 - The Psycho Surrealist

Chapter 16 - Accusations

"While we may have had our difficulties after Barry's passing, I never stopped loving my daughter," Martha Braxton said about her daughter, Sandra. "I don't understand why anyone would want to murder her. Sandra wouldn't hurt a fly, and everyone loved her." She patted her eyes with a Kleenex, her vibrant green eyes locked onto Doq. "Who would want to kill her?"

"That is what we're figuring out," Doq assured her, holding Martha's hands. "But we need your help."

Doq caught the woman's eyes. Glossed over. Distant. Yes, her lips quivered, and her hands trembled so bad they spasmed—long, frail, liver-spotted hands threatening to drop the coffee cup.

His affection did nothing to warm her. Martha got up from her sofa, breathing deeply. She silently stared out of a bay window at a magnificent poinsettia tree. Doq approached her, setting his hand on her shoulder, comforting her. Lieutenant Hertz remained seated. "I chose this house because of this poinsettia bush," she said, breathing deeply. The vibrant red pedals blinded the eyes while the aromas of cinnamon and apples burned the nose. Martha's house was antiseptic, not a speck of dirt or picture out of place, but the smell was overwhelming. "I don't know why, but I've always loved poinsettias. Alex loved them too."

"Alex?" Hertz questioned.

"Sandra."

"Oh, yes."

"I know how this must be hurting you," Doq said.

Martha turned around, meeting Doq eye-to-eye. "I can't even begin to imagine what my life will be like now. First my husband Barry, and now my sweet Sandy."

A palpable silence filled the living room like a dark fog.

"Sorry for your losses," said Hertz, getting up from her seat. She set the steaming coffee cup she had on a coaster. "I can't even begin to understand the grief you're going through, losing a child. I wouldn't come here if I didn't have a reason, but I need to know if you knew anything about her."

Martha turned her eyes down and slowly walked back to her couch, shoulders slouched, the light ripped from her eyes. "It was my fault," she sobbed.

"No, Ms. Braxton, Sandra's death was not your fault," Doq said.

"Yes, it is! She's dead because of me. My baby daughter is gone because I didn't care about her!"

Doq comforted her. He held onto her shoulders as the tears streamed down her eyes again; Martha trembled. "Listen to me. It was not your fault. Don't you dare blame yourself!"

The sobs racked Martha. She could only shake her head in response.

"I'm sure you protected her," Doq said.

Hertz looked silently on.

"I...still feel...responsible," Martha said.

Doq pulled away from her, tearful himself.

His eyes passed a bookshelf on the opposite side of the room. Displayed there were pictures of a happy family: Martha, Barry, Sandra, and a baby-faced teenage boy. One photograph showed Sandra standing next to a balding pastor, Sandra dressed in a white acolyte gown.

"She was a good, Christian girl with a lot to give to this world," Martha said, wiping her eyes, "and here I was holding her back. I should have let her go, let her spread her wings, and finally be her own woman." She pointed out two of many paintings filling the living room. One was the portrait of a man in blue, and another was of a landscape with rolling hills and hazy skies. "My daughter painted that after growing obsessed with the Crafter Slayer."

Doq looked thoughtfully at Hertz. "Is that so?"

"My daughter didn't just become a bad person, though. Something had to happen," Martha said.