Thirteen
A police cruiser is in the driveway when I arrive home. I start jogging the second I see it— please let my dad be okay.
The friendly neighborhood police officer, Officer Kyle, sits with Dad at our kitchen table. Officer Kyle holds a large mug between his hands, and the room stinks of stale coffee.
“Madeline,” says Dad, “This is Officer Kyle.”
“We’ve met,” says the balding, middle-aged paper pusher. “Madeline, I have some questions I’d like to ask you, if that’s alright.”
“About my mom? Now that it’s a murder investigation?” I put as much I-TOLD-YOU-something-was-fishy-SO into my tone as I can and sit beside my dad. My stomach growls, but dinner appears to be delayed.
Officer Kyle waves a dismissive hand. “Routine follow-up.”
My dad nudges my arm, reminding me to cooperate. He still wears his mechanic uniform—a polo shirt and grease-stained slacks, and I wonder if he’s eaten anything since lunch.
A small notebook lies in front of the policeman. Scribbles fill the top page, taken when Officer Kyle had privately questioned my dad. I squint to try to make something out, but my dad nudges me again.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Officer Kyle starts.
“Thanks…”
“Can you walk me through your day on September second, three years ago?”
The day in question, he means. “Sure,” I say. “I went to school. Then I babysat. Then I came home.”
Officer Kyle sniffs. “Did you notice anything unusual about your mom in the days or months leading up to September second?”
The low ringing starts in my ears, and something more than hunger pangs my stomach. I steel myself, not wanting Officer Kyle to read anything into my reaction.
The thing is, I hadn’t hung out with my mom enough in the weeks before the car crash to answer.
Those days were the last of the summer before high school.
I spent them playing basement pool games with Fox and making a last effort to get a tan-but-not-a-sunburn with Kristen, who had stories from traveling everywhere but Capital City.
There hasn’t been a Super who can time travel. But if there ever is, I’ll beg them to go back and make me stick around whenever Mom was home. If they can’t stop the whole murder thing from happening.
“She was busier,” I finally say.
“Busy how?”
“Her home office light would be on at two in the morning. I’m not sure.” I’m not the detective.
“And what were you doing up at two in the morning?”
Why is anyone awake in the middle of the night? “I had to pee?”
He coughs, averting his gaze a second too late. “Last question. Did you notice any arguments she had around the day of her death? Can you think of any reason someone might want to hurt her?”
You mean her argument with Arielle. It takes some effort to stay focused on Officer Kyle rather than sneaking a look at Dad. Was Officer Kyle asking me the same questions he’d already asked him?
“I didn’t notice any arguments,” I say, because I didn’t.
“Great,” says Officer Kyle. He flips his notebook closed and caps his pen. “That’s all I need.”
Waste. Of. Time.
“No problem.” The ringing in my ears dies down. He gathers himself, and my dad escorts him to the door. The dobermans bare their teeth and claw at their gate as he walks to his car. Police officers, neighbors, dinner guests… those dogs do not discriminate.
Dad returns and sighs. “Thanks for doing that.”
“Do you think it will help?”
“Maybe.” Dad-speak for nope.
“Dad,” I say as he trudges upstairs. “Did you ever see the minivan after it crashed?”
My dad manages Capital Auto Care and has been an auto mechanic for over twenty years. As far as I know, he’s never questioned the “accident.”
“The next day,” he says. “While the police tape was still up. Some guys and I went down. There wasn’t much car left to look at.”
“Was it obviously a hydroplane?” I ask. “That caused the crash?”
“It was obvious there was a hydroplane,” he says, “from the state of the guardrail. And the tank being punctured hard enough to leak that much gas, which is about a one in a million chance… but not impossible. Really, really unlucky.”
“Could it have been a Super?” I ask. “That caused the accident?” If a Super was involved, anything could have happened. But why would one be?
As my dad starts to answer, I keep going, my questions pouring out. “How did Mom die before the crash? What was she hit with that caused the skull fracture? When would that have happened? Did you ever ask to see the autopsy?”
“I’m so sorry, Madeline.” He shakes his head. “I wish I knew. By the time I finished arranging everything and putting affairs in order… the dust had settled. I didn’t see the need to investigate myself. I’d give anything to do it differently.”
Something about the coffee that Officer Kyle nursed annoys me.
“Do you know if anyone wanted to hurt Mom?”
He pauses on the top step, which creaks beneath his weight. “She made enemies with her stories. Who knows what she could’ve dug into. But I can’t think of anyone who would do this.”
What about the Levines? I can’t ask that right now.
“Yeah.” Mom never shared her drafts or sources with us. Her laptop was with her during the car crash and it had disintegrated in the flames; she hadn’t backed anything up that we could find. There was no way for us to know what she’d been working on.
“We’ll get through it,” says Dad. “Let me know if you want to go back to the support group. I know this is a lot.”
“Thanks…” I say. I only went to the support group to humor him, and he thinks that I went twice and declared myself “supported.” What really happened was that on day two, some seventh grader brought his emotional support hamster, which ended up peeing on my leggings. Hard pass after that.
“I’ve gotta go work on payroll. Will you be okay here?” he asks. “Things at work are piling up. I’m gonna change and head to the library.”
“Night, Dad. Don’t stay out too late.”
He chuckles, and I head for the fridge, bringing Officer Kyle’s cup to the dishwasher.
I jolt, the realization hitting me.
Officer Kyle could have questioned both of us at a more convenient time—not after a long day and swim meet. No. He specifically came during my meet to question my dad.
I’ve seen a true crime documentary or two. In homicides, the perp is almost always the husband, the boyfriend, or the secret boyfriend.
Oh no. My dad’s a suspect.
On top of everyone else, I can’t lose my dad. He was with me during the time of the crash; his alibi is solid. Do the police think he rigged the minivan beforehand? What could they have on him?
I’m only answered by the creak of the floorboards overhead as Dad gets ready for his night.
~
I fix myself a peanut butter sandwich, chug a bottle of water, and head upstairs. I’m used to being home alone, but it feels especially quiet tonight. Maybe Ms. Pellingham took the dobermans inside.
As soon as I enter my room, a cocky voice confronts me, “Okay, what’s wrong?”
I jump back, catching my balance on my heels just before I trip. I flick the light switch, and Dark Static radiates into view, perched against my windowsill. Peter Pan style.
“Can you not?” I ask.
“So, how was your day?” Unlike me, he’s totally relaxed.
“I did your favor,” I say. “Dude, I have homework.” I cannot deal with his antics right now.
“Right…” he starts, “about that…”
My phone buzzes, and an alert from the Capital Chronicle comes up.
“That can’t be good,” says D.S.
Funny choice of words, because the headline reads, “Bomb Found in CEO’s Car. Dark Static Strikes Again.”
No freaking way.
I glare at him. “Why are you doing this? Why are you hurting people? I know you have some kind of problem with good behavior, but this is too far.”
D.S. doesn’t move from his perch across the room. “Got that out of your system?”
I raise my voice, not worrying if it alerts Ms. Pellingham next door. The article calls him The Most Dangerous Supervillain of Our Time. So maybe I should feel scared that he’s in my room. Instead, hot anger pools in my chest.
“Go,” I shout. “I’m not doing whatever this is.”
As if on cue, a clap of thunder erupts outside. “Roberts. There’s something you should know.”