But I Need You - W. Winters Page 0,26

year. Excuse me,” he says and then blinks away whatever sleep he was attempting to get.

“A room for tonight. Maybe the weekend?” I ask and even to my own ears I sound out of breath.

My tone gets the man’s attention. He glances away from me to look past me.

“Just you?” he asks and I nod. It’s a lie, but better that than the truth. Why the hell would I get a motel room for me and my mother when she lives in town?

“How much?” I ask, already prying out my wallet and counting the bills.

I’ve stayed here plenty of times. It’s only sixty-five dollars for the night. He tells me one hundred and I hand it over in a single bill. He eyes it for a second too long before taking it.

It’s only then I can breathe. “Thank you.”

“You all right?” he asks, his lips in a thin line.

I let out a sigh and close my eyes before telling him, “It’s been one hell of a drive and it’s way too cold for September.”

The clerk huffs a laugh while the register clangs open. “It’s only going to get colder this weekend.”

With everything that happened, I didn’t realize my mother was wearing a dress. The top part is a solid navy blue, which complements the bottom portion that’s a dark blue paisley. I also didn’t realize she wasn’t wearing shoes. She ran out in her slippers and I didn’t pay attention to that either.

I’m sure there’s plenty I missed. I got the part where she shot my father and laid there for hours sobbing next to him, though. Hours. She sat there next to him for hours. The prosecutor in me would have a field day with that fact alone.

Unbuttoning the top button of her dress, I wonder if she planned on a girls’ night out to a nice restaurant downtown when she put it on. I bet she thought today was going to be a good day. It was one worth dressing up for.

She didn’t get to her hair or makeup, though. Or else it all came undone when the altercation happened. I can’t ask the first question that’s begging to be brought to life. Did he hit you, Mom? Did he threaten you? I don’t want to bring it up, just as much as she doesn’t want to talk about it.

The navy cotton fabric slips down her arms easily as I help her out of it. She hasn’t said a word, but her eyes are drenched in worry and tragedy and unspoken questions.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mother scared. Not like this.

“There you go,” I barely get out as the fabric falls to the floor and I wonder if my father saw her like this. Is that wretched look what she wore when she pulled the trigger?

The steam in the shower builds, fogging the top of the mirror’s edge and the warmth is positively suffocating. I busy myself rubbing my sore shoulder and barely watch her from my periphery in the foggy mirror as she slips down the rest of her dress and climbs into the tub.

The clothes will have gunshot residue on them too.

The hot water splashes and with it is the sound of my luggage unzipping as I pull out the toiletries I packed.

The goal is simple enough: get rid of the residue, calm my mother down, and come up with a plausible defense.

A nagging voice in the back of my mind whispers to ask her why. Swallowing thickly, I ignore it. But when I close my eyes, every little moment I ignored before flashes before me.

I pray this hot water can cleanse away these sins.

“You ran to find the killer.” I speak as I set a bottle on the edge of the tub. With the curtain pulled back, I can’t see her and she can’t see me.

“You were distraught at your husband’s death and how it happened so fast, there was nothing you could do.”

My body sways, my breath stolen for a moment as I envision a different reality. “But you saw the man.” With a heavy exhale I place a second bottle next to the first and tell her to wash her hair. My mother hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken.

“I went into the foyer but no one was there and then I saw you running out the back. I saw something or someone else first but I didn’t get a good look, but I saw you and ran out, wondering what the hell you