In 1980's New York, Barbara Fritz is the "meek and mild" little librarian assistant that nobody thinks twice about. Shy, soft-spoken, and ridiculously self-critical, she doesn't turn any heads. Not until she brutally kills her own father in cold blo...
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Pushing through a pair of glass doors that held my reflection, I stepped into the 53rd precinct with my head down. I didn't know where to go, but I was here. To my surprise, the two officers who showed up at my door didn't make me ride in the back of their cruiser. I was allowed to drive myself, but they did have to escort me to the station. Were they concerned I couldn't arrive on my own? Or was I simply a valued suspect? Either way, it would have been pretty suspicious had I not followed them.
The sting of winter was clinging to me, yet the thought of someone murdering my father bred more chill bumps up my spine than the temperature did. With the amount of money he was worth, and the vast number of wicked individuals who backed him, it was a wonder anyone would cross him... let alone kill him.
The last time I was at a police station was the day my mother died. My memory of that event was photographic. This place was similar, but not the same. It was bigger and far more crowded, but like the one back home, it began with a room with blue seats and an area roped off for people to stand in line. I saw several men and women sitting in the chairs, waiting.
Leafy Christmas garland and colorful lights were decked along the walls to, I assume, liven up the room. Holidays weren't my thing. I used to celebrate Christmas when I was young, but my childhood took a downward plunge around the age of twelve, and now I could barely stomach it.
An officer was standing behind a long, monochrome desk. She was speaking to someone else on the other side. It was a female cop, so maybe she could help me out. I assumed I would be asked to wait once I explained why I was here.
But down the hall, an elevator glided open, and a face I knew excruciatingly well appeared inside of it. I began to grip my leather Coach tightly, pulling the strap against me with enough force to suffocate myself—if I'd only had it around my neck. Cheryl was fast approaching me, and I was completely unprepared for the verbal abuse she was equipped with.
Intense pressure scattered throughout my skull; the familiar headache I suffered from as a young girl became fresh and anew the moment she entered my proximity.
Cheryl Hughes was my half-sister, and she hated me. I almost didn't blame her since the feeling was mutual. Growing up, we were practically mortal enemies, and I'd be lying if I said most of the ill will wasn't on my end.
From the moment we met, I was jealous of her for the stupidest reason in the world; my father unequivocally loved her.
Our rivalry was minuscule in the beginning, but most hard-feelings started with small little seeds, and each Christmas morning our father seemed to plant them. He didn't tolerate arguments, so if I liked one of her gifts better than mine, and she didn't want to share with me, I was punished for making a commotion. She always got baby dolls and doll houses, while I was lucky to get a box of crayons, or at most a new pair of shoes.
As we got older though, our fights usually occurred over makeup, hairbands, and dresses. Neither one of us were too keen on sharing, and she'd imply I was too fat to "squeeze into" any of her clothes.
