spectator. [hs]

one

My room was dark, like usual, I noticed after my eyes fluttered open, immediately taking in the sight of the small, red alarm clock laying on my dresser. It read 9:37. A time I would normally never be awake. Every summer's day, I would always arise around noon or a little before, having there was no doubt I stayed awake the previous night until the night left and the morning arrived.

Leaning up in my bed I suddenly felt something laying next to me. I was relieved to see my dog, Pepper by my side, nuzzled under my quilted bed sheets.

This was an everyday routine for me. Wake up in an empty house, no one around while I either kept house or found a board game to play by myself. If I was cleaning, I would never forget to play a record in the background. Preferably The Beatles. I would once in a while go out to the grassy fields surrounding our small house and take it all in as if I was in a movie. I also keep the horses feed during the day. Sometimes I'll have to groom them too, but the best part, is riding them. It lasted until six thirty in the evening, when my father finally returned home from work.

I wasn't upset about being left alone each day. By now, I was used to it. And sometimes, being alone is something you need. A time to take for yourself. But there was something about it that I didn't enjoy at the same time.

A loud banging came from the front door one day last week. Having it was the anniversary, if that's what you'd call it, of my mother's death, I assumed there would be visitors and family coming by to show their sympathy and what not. But it was far from that. In fact, it was something I would've never expected.

  Wednesday, July 18th, 1978.

I wiped down my dresser once more with the damp dishrag in my hand before I heard a loud knock from the front door. Pepper immediately went ballistic, barking non-stop. I glared down at her in confusion, for she rarely barked when someone came to the door.

I left my small bedroom and walked into the living room, narrowing my eyes at the blurry figure through the white window curtains. I turned off the record player swiftly, making sure it was silent so I could fully hear.

  "Who is it?" I called out.

  "I'm Detective Wallace, I'm here to speak to the Grant family." A deep voice replied from the opposite side of the door, slightly mumbled. I approached carefully, Pepper calming down a bit as I twisted the knob, revealing a tall man. His blonde hair was shaggy over his forehead, and he wore a scruffy mustache. Before I could say anything, he flashed me a badge, a blank expression displayed on his face.

  "Hello," his voice is rough. "You must be Kennedy. I'm Detective Wallace. May I come in?"

His eyes were a bright blue, and sparkled when he tilted his head to the side. After a moment, and a lot of effort not to roll my eyes, I sucked in a breath. "My father isn't home." I stated, and the man smiled knowingly down at me.

  "When will he be home, then?"

I acted as if I was checking the time to buy me a moment. I already knew the time, but standing in front of anyone of the police field made me quite nervous to say anything. "Around five thirty, I suppose." I answered.

It wasn't long after I spoke that he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small notepad. "Well," he started to jot something down while speaking. "Tell your father to call this number as soon as he can. I'm new to this case, and I've found some interesting things that stand out to me. I think it's a good idea to  find a good lawyer to represent your father-"

  "Represent my father? What are you talking about?" I asked in confusion.

  His words sent a chill down my spine. Why would my dad need a lawyer?

  "Your mother's case has been investigated by over fifty people, and yet none of them have succeeded in seeing what's right in front of their eyes. I'll talk to you both another time when your father is home with you," he stopped, ripping the paper from the pad before nudging it my direction. "Have a good day now."

He scattered off, and instead of questioning him further, I brought my hand closer to my face. I looked down at the scribbly writing. I could barely make it out.

Detective Wallace.
277 Teahouse Lane, Winfield, LA
944-821-3994