But I Need You - W. Winters Page 0,28

and pour out more than enough conditioning treatment as my mother’s head hangs in shame, and I lather it. I make sure to get it all, refusing to let any residue stay behind.

“I didn’t do it, I didn’t bring you in, because of what happened last month,” I whisper and my mother’s composure cracks. “They’re going to know about it, Mom, and it’s motive so it’s best we bring it up and control the narrative.”

She’s silent as I work the conditioner through her hair and then comb it through. “It needs to sit,” I tell my mother and she nods. The water’s still hot and the steam smothers me.

“Ask for a lawyer, speak as little as possible. I have the story and I’ll make sure it’ll stick. You just have to be quiet as much as you can and stick with the story I gave you.”

It’s quiet for the rest of the time, the hot water splashing onto my arms and chest when I rinse out her hair. It soaks into my sleeve where the blood resided and I watch the pink droplets fall into the tub. I’ll throw away the clothes. All of them and buy new ones for my mother in the morning.

Over and over in my head, I rehearse our story and hope it’s our way out of this.

My mother’s only silent or crying, nothing more than that until she tries to confide in me, “I wish …”

My motions stop, the lather on my hands a stark pure white and smelling sweetly of lavender.

This time when I ignore her, when I don’t press for more, I know why I’m doing it. I’m not strong enough to handle any more than this tonight. “There won’t be a damn shred of evidence to tie you to this when you go in for questioning. Don’t give them any. Don’t give them a damn thing.”

“What’d you do with the gun?”

“It’s wiped down, and it’s Dad’s, isn’t it?” I know it is. It doesn’t make sense to hide it when there are no fingerprints and they’ll know the gun that killed him matches the one he has registered.

“You will not go to prison for this. I swear by it.” Holding back the emotions I’m feeling, and relying on the ruthless lawyer inside of me, I step away and tell her to comb the leave-in conditioner through, as if she doesn’t know.

“I’ll leave these sweats for you.” My mother’s a bit larger than I am, but they’ll fit. My pajamas are always baggy and loose. She’ll be fine tonight in them.

Leaving them on the sink, I leave the bathroom, worn and damaged in a way that hits me the moment the cool air batters my skin. With the click of the door behind me, I lean my head back as shuddering breaths leave me.

My father’s dead. My mother’s a murderer.

And my mind can’t wrap itself around those facts. Fresh tears threaten as my phone sounds out. Sniffling, I pull myself together.

Cody’s called. Multiple times.

My sister’s called but she didn’t leave a voicemail.

No one else. So I don’t think she’s gotten home yet. She hasn’t made the discovery or called the cops. In the mindset of supporting my story, I should turn off my phone. And so that’s what I do right now. I hold down the button on the side until the screen turns black, shutting out the world and hiding. Just for one night.

And what about tomorrow? It’s Cody’s voice that questions me. The guilt of it squeezes like a vise around my chest.

I can’t tell him anything. Not any part of the truth. I can lie to the police all day, I can turn an interrogation into a children’s story. But Cody? He’ll see through it all, and I can’t confess to him.

The one person I want to talk to is the one who’s gotten away with murder—the one I need to make sure I don’t lose my mom too.

I help my mother brush her hair when she’s finally out of the bathroom and lying down on the bed. I brush her hair like she used to do for me.

When her chest falls and rises steadily, and I know she’s sleeping, I stand on weak legs. I clean it all up, tossing the clothes at the bottom of the tub, and rinsing them down.

I let them soak before tossing them out. There’s no reason to keep them, but if somehow they’re found, they’ll at least be clean of residue.

When I get