Anybody's Child by Michelle Kidd (polar express read aloud .TXT) 📕

“Great! Be right back.”

The door closed. Beth took the opportunity to look around the gray cinder block walls. The tiny space made her feel claustrophobic. A rectangular mirror hung to her left—probably one of those two-way deals.

Were they watching from the other side? They didn’t need to worry about her; she didn’t dare do anything. She stared down at a stain on her sweats—pizza sauce from a month ago. Mom had surprised them with Antonio’s. She pressed her lips together to block out the sudden rush of emotions. Oh, Lord, what am I going to do? “I’m so, so sorry,” she whispered, dropping her head into her hands. All the hateful things she’d said came crashing back like tidal waves of guilt breaking over her.

Last night, she’d lain in bed rehashing the nasty argument, remembering how unreasonable her mother had become. She’d lashed out at her. The hurt on her mother’s face would be forever etched in her brain. Beth wondered if she’d been absorbed in those hateful thoughts, as her mom fought for her last breath. The awful memory was too much to stomach. Her last words to her were horrible—all over a stupid party. “Mom, please forgive me. I didn’t mean to hurt you, and now I can’t take it back.” How could you let this happen, God? She wanted to shout at Him and shake her fist.

The detective entered so suddenly it caused Beth to jump. “Here you go. It’s a little warm. The fridge is on the fritz.”

She accepted the bottle, not bothering to open it, and mumbled, “Thanks.”

The chair squeaked as Arnold slid it across the floor, popped the top of a diet Dr Pepper, and held out a packet of cashews to her. When she declined, he shrugged and dumped a handful into his palm. “Beth, let me get right to the point. We appreciate your coming down to talk to us. I don’t have to tell you how important it is we catch the person who did this to your mom.” His voice indicated a casual air, but his gaze pinned her down like the frog in last week’s biology class. He shook the nuts in his fist as if he was about to roll dice, then threw his head back and tossed them into his mouth.

She sat the water bottle on the table, stalling. How did she describe the worst moments of her life to a stranger? He’d never understand her world had been ripped away, and she wasn’t ready to talk about it.

“Beth, this can’t be easy, but we need you to tell us what happened this morning. Explain everything you saw from the time you woke up.”

She nodded and ran her thumb along the label of the water bottle, focusing all her attention on flattening out a dent. Briefly, she stumbled through her account, her voice a mere whisper.

Then the crushing truth hit her. “Today’s Mindy’s birthday!” For the rest of her life, her sister would have the shadow of her mother’s death marking her special day.

Detective Arnold checked his notepad. “Mindy’s your six-year-old sister?”

Beth nodded and used her index finger to pick at a sticker on the bottle.

“That’s rough.” Silence, thick and hot settled between them. “That’s why you need to tell us everything, Beth.”

Her name rolled off his lips, soft and caring as if he’d practiced the tone. She’d lost count of how many times he’d repeated it throughout the interview. If this was a ploy meant to put people at ease, it wasn’t working—just the opposite. She cringed every time he said it. He didn’t care about her or her family. She wanted to go home, wanted her life back, and wanted her mom. “Look, I’m trying to tell you everything, okay? What do you want me to say? There was a noise. I went to check on my mother, and that’s when I found her. Please, can’t I go home—it’s my sister’s birthday, and she’s all alone. She needs us.” Once more, she buried her head in her hands to shield herself from this nightmare.

“Okay. What about someone who would want to hurt your mom? Did she have enemies?”

“Enemies? No, everyone loved her.”

“Anything at her job that would put her in danger?”

“She was a secretary.”

Arnold consulted his clipboard again. “Says here, administrative assistant.”

Beth closed her eyes. “Whatever! It’s the same difference. She wasn’t into anything dangerous, okay? My mom didn’t have enemies. She sang in the choir and taught Sunday school.”

“So, you can’t think of anybody—anybody at all who might have done this?”

“No, I told you.” Her mother would be appalled at the tone she’d taken with a stranger—the police no less. But Arnold didn’t seem surprised, only sat back and folded his arms.

“So, let’s return to the noise. You told the other detective you believed someone was in the house?”

“I heard a noise downstairs. Well—at first, I couldn’t tell where it was coming from, but when I got up, it sounded like someone moving around.”

“So, from your parents’ bedroom or downstairs?”

“Uh . . . both.”

“Beth, we didn’t find any sign of a break-in or an intruder.”

She stared at him, the water bottle crinkled in her hand. Not her problem. “I know what I heard.”

“Can you describe the sound?”

“Like someone looking for something.”

Arnold seemed to consider what she said. “A loud noise, then?”

“No. More like things opening and closing. That’s why I thought it was Mindy snooping around trying to find her present.”

“But it wasn’t?”

“No. When I got up to check, I found her still asleep. When I noticed she was in her bed, I got worried about Mom and went down the hall to her room.”

“So . . . scared and convinced of an intruder, you left your baby sister alone?”

“Yes, but—”

“Beth, how did you and your mom get along?”

“What? Fine—why?”

“I have a neighbor’s report that says they overheard you yelling at your mother earlier yesterday afternoon.”

She lowered her head and scraped a fingernail against the pizza stain to avoid his gaze. Their fight had started when Mom picked her up from school. “Yeah, we had an argument.”

“You fight often?”

Lately, but Beth was too ashamed to admit it. It hurt too much to remember she’d ever said ugly things to her mom. Their squabbles seemed so stupid now. “Sometimes.”

“What did you argue about?”

She shifted in her chair and shrugged. “Just stuff.”

“Parents can be a drag—mine were. I bet you get pretty sick of being told what to do all the time. You’re almost eighteen.”

Her cheeks burned. She’d yelled some of those same words hours before. “Doesn’t matter. None of it matters anymore.”

Arnold poured out another handful of nuts while he considered her statement. He rattled them around in his fist, sounding like a viper poised to strike. “That’s where I disagree.” He leaned forward. “From my perspective, everything that happened to your mother in the hours leading up to her death matters. Let me explain why—you tell me about an intruder, but I have nothing stolen and no signs of forced entry. My officers conducted a canvas of your neighborhood early this morning. Several of your neighbors reported hearing you and your mother arguing. Several hours later, your mother’s the victim of murder. Most interesting of all, I have a knife buried in your closet.” His eyes gleamed with arrogance. “You see, I enjoy puzzles, Beth. Investigating a crime is taking a piece here and a piece there, seeing which pieces don’t fit, and finding the ones that do. All those things matter very much.”

Speechless, she glared at him. How dare he imply she had something to do with killing her own mom!

“Do you have any idea why we found a knife in the bottom of your closet? We haven’t gotten the lab reports back, but we’re pretty confident it’s the murder weapon.” He propped his arms on his knees and got close enough for Beth to smell the peanuts on his breath. “Still think it doesn’t matter?”

Dark spots crawled at the corners of her vision. She felt sick. She was going to pass out. This couldn’t be happening. Wake up, wake up, she chanted. It was like being trapped inside a terrifying dream. She jammed the heels of her hands into the hollow of her eyes to wake herself up.

“Let’s start over, Beth, beginning with the fight . . .”

Beth’s eyelids felt as if they were made of sandpaper. Physically and mentally exhausted, she no longer cared about the grungy condition of the table or the chewing gum fossilized beneath it. She folded her arms and rested her aching head. Would this nightmare never end?

“When can I see my dad?”

“He’s in another part of the station answering questions.”

“I don’t care—I want to see him.”

Arnold must have sensed she’d had enough and needed a break. He stood and walked to the door. When he returned, her dad trailed behind him. She stumbled to her feet and ran to him, letting herself get lost in the comfort of his embrace.

“I’ll leave you alone for a few minutes.”

Detective Arnold was hardly out the room when Beth pressed her father for answers. “Dad, why are they acting like we’re the criminals? Why can’t I talk to Uncle Mike?”

“Sweetheart, the questioning is all part of the process. It’s procedure. The investigators need to take the evidence as far as it leads. You’ve watched enough television to know the investigation starts with those closest to the victim.”

Beth bristled at the words. This was Mom they were talking about. Not some Lifetime movie.

“Besides,” he continued, “Mike isn’t a detective, and he isn’t handling your mom’s case.” He gave her a reassuring look. “They’re only trying to exclude us. Arnold’s . . . well, a hard nose, but he’s good.”

It sure hadn’t seemed that way. Why had she been forced to give them her pajamas and several other things in the house when they started waving that warrant around?

After a few minutes, the detective stepped back into the room. “You two are free to go.” Arnold held out a hand to her father. “I’ll be in touch.” And to Beth, “Thank you, I’m sure this wasn’t easy.”

Darned right, it hadn’t been. She flicked resentful eyes at him and leaned her head against her dad’s shoulder—daring Detective Arnold to harass her further.

Beth followed her father through the station. Several of the officers nudged each other and whispered behind their white Styrofoam cups. A sick sensation formed in her stomach. The police—Arnold in particular—thought she’d done it. She knew it!

Neither spoke once they reached her father’s SUV. It was warm for the end of January. A pale, yellow sun shone down on Beth making her feel sticky in her sweats. She’d always enjoyed driving through the tiny town of Lovingston—population 502. There was something quaint about the old houses, one bumped right against the other, which gave it that close-knit feel. Her dad had worn out his joke about driving by and missing the town if you blinked.

For the most part, folks around here were good, honest country people who worked hard and cared about one another. Most of the buildings had been there forever—some dated before the Civil War, although there were more and more modern places popping up. There