The Fourth of July

t h r e e • t h e p a r e n t s

"I am so sorry for your loss." Detective West explains with a look of sympathy. "We are doing everything we can to catch the killer. As you know, that does unfortunately involve interviewing the both of you and I would like to thank you both for your cooperation."

"You're welcome," I say with a fake smile, to be polite.

My husband looks at me with a look of disapproval.

"What?" I snap at my husband in front of the detective. "I, for one, appreciate that they're being thorough. Don't you want closure? Don't you want justice for our son?"

"Of course I do." He says angrily. "But this interview right here is a waste of all of our time and I feel like this detective is doing a disservice to our son's murder by wasting time with us when there is the actual killer on the loose."

"I'm sorry, sir. It's just something we are required to do, as parent's murdering their own children is actually something that happens." Detective West explains sternly but smoothly.

"Still a waste of time." My husband snaps.

"Babe!" I scold him.

His behavior is so disappointing. I don't know why he is so rude sometimes. I hate the man. He hates me too, actually. I'd say I don't know why we are still together but I do know why—the community would talk so much shit and as much as I hate to admit it, the community means so much to both me and my husband. I am pretty sure Grayson could tell that we disliked each other. We never get along.

"Regardless, this isn't the main thing I've called you two into questioning for." Detective West says with a look that does not look so good.

My stomach ends up in knots when he says that. I wonder why else we would be in for questioning.

"So what's the main reason we are here then? Because we haven't been told the truth if that makes the main reason." My husband snapped again.

I roll my eyes, as usual. My husband's bluntness seems to always cross the line. I kind of wish I was the only person in for questioning. At least that way he and I would not look so much as like a damn fool. Ugh.

"Well," Detective West says making a stern cold look at us and taking a good second to pause.

"Well what?" My husband bluntly interrupts.

"Let the man speak." I snap, about to lose my temper. I give my husband this look. This particular look is the look he knows good and well not to say another word or I am going to lose my temper with him.

I take a deep breath to release some of the tension and anger, and then I turn back to look at the detective.

"I am so sorry." I apologize to the detective. "What was it you were saying?"

"I was saying," Detective West responds, "I have really called you two in here for a different reason, because I already know you two were not responsible for the murder of your son. You have an alibi."

Detective West pauses once again, sending a chill down my spine, as he flips pages in the file in his hands. It's as if he is trying to make us more nervous than we already are to raise even more suspicious about god knows what he has to ask us about.

Detective West finally breaks his silence, his eyes unwavering from us, "I have called you in because—and no need to make excuses because I already know—I have to ask you some questions about the beverages provided at your teenager's party."

My husband and I look at each other with a look of worry. We know we are fucked. We provided alcohol for our son's Fourth of July party. Everyone knows about it. We just had no idea we would get caught. Alcohol is seemingly decriminalized in this area for people under 21 anyway.

My husband suddenly clears his throat.

"We want to speak to our lawyer." My husband says, sternly but almost shakily.

"Yes, we would like to speak to our lawyer before any further questions." I say, reiterating what my husband stated.

"Alright then." Detective West chuckles lightly, scooting back in his chair as he raises up from his chair, "I knew that this was going to be quick, but I had no idea it was going to be this quick."

Detective West laughs as he walks to the door to leave the interrogation room.

We are screwed.