There was a time I lived with the foolish notion that I didn't have a mother and never had. I was eight years old when I found a worn snapshot stowed away in my father's study while looking for a tape roll. Our yard was recognizable in the backdrop but the woman featured was a stranger. She was tall and slender; facing away from the camera with her head turned just slightly over her shoulder to give the photographer a patient smile. She was classically beautiful: creamy fair skin, high cheekbones, and perfectly bow shaped lips. Her smile, warm and familiar, gave me a need to know who she was. Naïve, I assumed that my father would neither notice nor care about this single picture. I lifted it from the drawer and went running off to my older brother.
As was typical on a weekday afternoon I found him in the kitchen rooting through cupboards for something that was edible without any preparation. As I entered the room he hopped off the chair he'd been standing on. In his hand he held package of cookies.
"Hungry?" he asked me, dropping the pack onto the table. I shook my head.
"Who's this woman?" I asked him while shoving the photo into his hands. My voice was nearly accusatory. Perhaps, in my subconscious, I already knew the answer to this question but I wanted to hear it directly from his lips.
Ray looked down at the picture and his impish charm faded away. He turned cold and stiff, something he rarely did with me. His smirk collapsed into a flat line and he was silent for a long time before he answered.
"Our mother."
"Are you sure?" I looked down at the picture in his hands with new curiosity. I had a burning need to know more about the woman who had birthed me—the mother it turns out I actually did have at one time. A thousand questions danced and dipped in my head.
"Of course I'm sure," he said, pushing the picture back into my hands. "You think I'd forget our own mother? Besides, can't you see she looks like you?"
"I guess from the right angle..." I tilted the photo slightly, trying to see the resemblance he was referring to. We had the same hair, I supposed. My mouth opened to ask more questions but that was the moment my father thundered into the house.
We heard the door slam with such force that it rattled the windows but we didn't even jump. He came into the room, loosening his tie as he strode over to fridge for a cold one. He yanked the fridge open with similar force, pulled out two clinking bottles of beer, and slammed the door shut. If his usual patterns had continued he wouldn't have spared us as much as a glance. He would have kept going and stalked all the way back to his study where he would slam that door too and lock it for the rest of the evening. It must have been from the corner of his eye that he caught my rapt expression and instead stomped over to us.
"What is this?" he demanded, tearing the picture out of my hand.
Like Ray, his demeanor changed entirely as he registered the image. His face grew very dark and I knew that I must have done something really bad to make him so angry. Back in those days I looked at my father with little less than reverence. I was deluded enough to think that any anger he expressed toward me was justified. An apology clawed its way up my throat but not fast enough—never fast enough.
"You little brat," he hissed, throwing the picture. "You've been in my study haven't you? Haven't you!? Answer me!"
I whimpered, unable to form words while I watched the photo flutter to the floor just inches away. The best I could do was wince, steel myself for the strike that I knew was coming.
"What did I tell you about going in there?" he roared, looming over me with one, thick hand raised high above his head in the upswing. "What did I tell you about pawing through my stuff? Are you an idiot? How many times am I going to have to—!?"
"She didn't," Ray interrupted, reminding the both of us that he was there by taking one step between me and my father. "I did."
"You're a son of a bitch." My father was suddenly deadly quiet again. He may have known that Ray was lying to cover for me but if he did that only pissed him off more. As the two of them stared into each other's eyes with the deepest contempt I took my window of opportunity to flee the room. I took just one more risk to scoop the photo off the floor. I escaped just as I heard a heavy fist pounding against soft flesh. It wasn't the first hit Ray took for me and it wouldn't be the last.
Even though I had removed myself from the situation I'd seen enough of my father's volatile fits of temper to know what would happen. Things were always worse with Raymond on the receiving end. When I was being hit I had the good sense—or enough overwhelming fear—to cry and plead and apologize madly but Ray would just stand there and take the brunt in silence. His insolence infuriated my father and did nothing but fuel his rage. More than once I had begged Ray to just fake some tears or something to make the beating stop sooner. He never did.
Locked in my room I heard little more than dishes shattering but I imagined that I could feel the whole house shake. By that time tears were streaming freely down my face and blurring my vision. All I could think to myself was that I'd been bad and I'd caused such trouble. I had upset Ray, I had upset my father, and I had caused this fight. Hours later I saw Raymond slink by my bedroom with more than a few fresh bruises blooming on his arms and face. I felt too guilty to reach out and comfort him.
Situations like that were typical when my father got in a temper—which he did on an almost daily basis. Either he got worse as I aged or otherwise I came to see my father for what he was. I had lived for so long with a false image of him as a put-upon but ultimately good guy. I was the opposite of Ray who I think always realized what a monster he was. Then again, Raymond was around to see things I wasn't. My father may have killed our mother—we'll never know, but Ray always insisted that he did. If I had seen such things, maybe I never would have been foolish enough to think my father had a good heart.
It should come as no surprise that eventually we left. The only shocking thing is that it took us so long to do so. Most of my father's money was always tied up in investments. For most of my childhood we lived like kings but the kind of... business that my father participated in could be fickle. When some of his most important investments fell through our estate disintegrated into a pitiful state. With our money we could have moved to a smaller house with less property and lived comfortably but he refused to sell. By then the abuse had drained me and infuriated my brother and then, on top of it all, we were expected to live in shambles. We stuck it out until I finished high school but then enough was enough. So Raymond and I left in the dead of night because we knew that if he knew there would be chaos. He may have hated us, but we were useful to him.
It wasn't until several months later that we were found by the police and told about his death. Honestly, when I saw them at the door, at first I was afraid that our father had sent people to track us down so he could make us pay for jumping ship. You can't imagine how relieved I was to find out that he was dead. It sounds terrible, but it's true.
#
Adrienne King paused to gather up her hair and wind it tightly with an elastic band. She tugged the thick ponytail so that it hung over her left shoulder. Moistening her cracked lips, she uncrossed her legs and then crossed them the other way. The detective was still watching her. His pen hovered an inch above the paper; he clearly thought there was more to the story. Adrienne hated to disappoint, but there was nothing more to be said.
"Was there something else you needed to know?" she asked politely. "You asked about my childhood and my relationship with my family. I think I summarized what it was like to grow up under the supervision of my father and covered the events of months preceding his death."
"Ah," he said, settling back into his chair. If he was disappointed he didn't show it. He studied the young woman carefully. "Your brother sounds like an interesting character. You believe he hated your father?"
"Of course he did," she responded coolly. "I'm not sure there's a person alive or dead who didn't. If you met Lawrence King, you hated him. That's the kind of person he was."
"Do you think perhaps that hatred may have driven your brother to violence?"
"I doubt it. If Raymond had wanted to kill my father he would have done it long before then. There was never a lack of provocation." She paused and peered at the investigator with the steely sort of gaze she reserved for specific occasions. "Are you accusing my brother of murder?"
"I am exploring all possible venues," he responded good-naturedly. "It sounds like Raymond was a troubled child and that can lead to unspeakable acts. It wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility for him to have done this. Surely you know the first thing to investigate is people who were close to the victim."
"I was a troubled child," she said harshly, "and I was just as close to him as Ray was. You don't seem to be accusing me. Why is that?"
"You seem to misunderstand me. I'm only exploring possibilities right now. There are no accusations at this point in time." He paused. "I think we can call it a day, shall we?" He folded up his pad of paper and slid it onto his desk. "Thank you for coming in. I have just one more question for you. Are you informed on the whereabouts of your brother Miss King?"
"No, I am not," she relayed honestly. "We haven't spoken in several years. I'm surprised your office was unable to locate him. Isn't that part of your job?"
"Evidently he's off the map." The detective shrugged, ignoring her pointed barb. "We've been working on locating him and asked around at a couple of his last known addresses but every lead we got thus far was a dead end. I'm sure you know innocent people usually aren't so hard to find."
"Perhaps you're just not looking carefully enough," Adrienne suggested.
"Well," He dropped his pen on the desk. "That could be, but to be perfectly honest we're lacking in manpower for this particular investigation. Do you think that you'd be able to locate him?"
"If you insist on bringing him in I suppose that I could give it a shot. I don't expect he'll be too happy to receive the summons though."
"I'd appreciate if you would Miss King. It would truly be a great help. I'm afraid we really do need question him if we're going to do this investigation properly."
"I'll see what I can do," she told him.
"Wonderful." The detective smiled as he got to his feet. "Again, I thank you for your time today. Did you have any questions regarding the investigation?"
"Just one," she said. Her voice was smoother than the finest silk, her lips deliberately pursed.
"Ask away," the detective invited.
"You've been working on this case for a few weeks now. So you must know by now that no one really liked my father. Much of his dealings were illegal, he had a violent temper, and he was sick minded at best. This case has been cold for seven years, why are you investigating it now?"
The man nodded carefully at her question before returning with one his own.
"Do you have anything to hide Miss King?"
Adrienne smiled sardonically. For the first time since the woman had stepped in his office, the detective thought she looked unpleasant.
"Sir," she said softly while plucking small pieces of lint off her sleeve, "I've spent the past eight years trying to forget the personal hell I escaped. I only wondered what possessed you to drag it back up now."
"It's my job," he said. "Whatever your father may have been, I think he deserves a proper investigation... don't you?"
She paused, looking up at him with an expression that wondered if he was joking.
"No," she answered resolutely. "Good day, Mr. Reynolds."
#
As she walked out of Reynolds' office Adrienne felt a chill rush up her arms. She had been stuck in that humid office for most of the morning and it was beyond refreshing to feel the breeze. There was more than that though. She was disquieted by the whole encounter. There was something undeniably fishy about the situation. Absentmindedly she rubbed one arm, bringing warmth back to her skin.
When the sweet sounding woman had phoned her last week and set up the appointment Adrienne had been sure the questions would relate to the recent string of burglaries taking place around the block from her apartment. She'd been relieved that they were finally focusing some attention on the robberies now that the men were reportedly armed. It would be quick, she'd thought. They would ask her if she had seen anything unusual and she would regretfully respond that she hadn't. Instead, she had walked into something else entirely.
Being questioned about her past had caught her completely off-guard. It was as she said; the case had been cold for going on eight years now. At the time of its occurrence, most had seen the death of Lawrence King as a public service. The police had dismissed the case easily and neither Adrienne nor Raymond has issued any complaint. So who was this young, hotshot detective Reynolds anyway? What personal attachment had spurred him to pull this case back to the surface?
Adrienne had a small sprout of an idea but she would have liked to be wrong. Reynolds was not much older than she was. If he had a past conflict with Raymond—not uncommon—he could be seeking vengeance by trying to convict his old rival of murder. It seemed like a massive overreaction for someone as rational as he had seemed, but appearances could deceive. If this were his motivation and he reached Raymond before she did, he might well get his wish in a gift wrapped package. She would not, could not let that happen.
Being that a handful of professional detectives had tried and failed to track him down; Adrienne knew she wasn't in for an easy task. She also knew that she had one thing the pros were lacking: a mutual past. Maybe the place to start wasn't by searching Raymond's last known address. Maybe it was somewhere he had never lived, had never even set foot in. Maybe the place to start was with someone. Fortunately, Adrienne knew just who that was.