Homewrecker

26 - 𝓽𝓪𝓵𝓴

I had pulled my legs close to my chest as I sat on the Adirondack chair on the back patio of the lake house, letting my gaze linger on the darkened wood of the dock as it drifted back and forth in the glimmering lake water out in front of me, bright and glittering from the morning sunlight. It was quiet except for the ripples against the shore, the creaking of the wood, and the chirping of the birds in the branches of the pine trees in between properties.

In the distance, a speedboat glided across the line where the lake and the sky met on the horizon, so far from me I couldn't even hear its motor when I listened for it. Everything was still, like the world had decided to all that was happening a moment to stop, to sink in, disintegrate into something more manageable. Everyone inside seemed to still be asleep, or still sleepy enough to make less noise anyway.

After the interview with Kelly Bright from the early morning talk show, I spent the rest of the day in my half of the bunk bed, asleep or pretending to be. I wasn't sure if it was waking up at around four in the morning or listening to the lies that spilled from Amy and David's lips that made me so fatigued, but either way, I didn't emerge until it was after dark. Even then, I only grabbed a banana and a handful of gluten free cookies and went back into the room.

It wasn't until I woke up earlier that morning, when it was still dark—again—that I realized Indie had kept texting me after the interview yesterday. She told me I looked freaking cute in the blue shirt I was wearing, and that I did great, looked totally at ease, which I knew was another lie someone had told me that day. Then she asked me to call her about what I said before, about my mom.

When I didn't answer, she sent another twelve more messages throughout the morning and afternoon before they stopped in the evening. Her last message was without exclamation points or question marks, or even emojis. It was short and final in a way I hadn't expected.

Talk to me, Bronwyn.

I deleted the notification from my phone, swiping my thumb across the screen as I looked away because my silence should've made it clear enough that I didn't want to talk, to anyone, even her. If I called her, told her the rest of the truth, she would start to cry. She would tell me how sorry she was, how horrible this was, and ask me what I needed. And Indie was my best friend. Hearing those things from her, from someone actually cared, would unlock something in me that I wanted to bury deep and far away.

So, instead of responding, I glanced down at the card I held in between my fingers and dialed the number, brought the phone to my ear and counted the dial tones before I heard on the other line, "This is Detective Marsh."

"Hi, Detective," I greeted, straightening in the Adirondack chair as if he could've somehow seen me there, slumped against the wood carefully handcrafted together. "This is Bronwyn Larson. You're investigating my mom's murder? Donna Larson?"

I heard papers shuffling in the background before he spoke. "Hey, hello, Bronwyn. What can I do you for today?"

"I wanted to ask you if you knew anything more about what happened? If you had any suspects or something?"

The hushed shuffling of papers quieted on the other end of the phone, soon replaced with the clanking of keys on a keyboard, tap, tap, tap. "We have a few leads that we're working on," he said after a moment, the phone shifting against his ear like he was moving it. "It's still early in the investigation, and a lot of manpower is going into looking for a few missing tornado victims, but it's got my full attention here."

I frowned, realizing that he seemed to be using one of the techniques Deshaun had told me about earlier, about answering a question without really answering it. Deflecting to something else, the question you actually wanted to answer, and using such vague word choices someone might not have caught on. "So, what are some of the leads you're working on with your full attention?"