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There's something else on my mind now, something that refuses to go unnoticed now that it’s been brought up. Why does Charlie think I killed his wife, and what would make him assume I would do something like that? Part of me thinks it involves needing someone to blame, but it could be something else. His wife’s been dead for years. He can’t honestly believe this whole time I murdered her, right?
A more significant question comes to mind, then. Does Bianca know what her father thinks? Did he tell her? Is that one more reason she wants nothing to do with me? It’s almost too much to handle all at once, the questions and implications and possibilities.
Above all of it, one idea rings out the loudest.
Finding out who fired that fatal shot might go a long way toward setting things right.
BIANCA
I force a smile as I step up to the desk in the lobby of the police station. How long has it been since I stood right here in this very spot? Thinking back to the last time I was here, I think I was twelve or thirteen and so excited and thrilled about visiting my dad at work.
Back then, he was important, a higher-up. Funny, I never would have guessed that everything would change less than ten years later. Excitement would become embarrassment; a sadness encompassing me as soon as I walked through the double doors. Being here now, everything is different. I’m here to help my father, not to visit him. He’s no longer the hero I worshiped as a little girl. Not anymore.
I wrinkle my nose upon my first deep breath into my nose. The place reeks of stale coffee. The tiled floor could use replacing, and the fluorescent lights… well, fluorescent lights never do anyone any favors. It makes us all look washed out and gaunt. I try to ignore the lingering stares as I stand waiting. A handful of random people are in molded plastic chairs, probably waiting to see an officer.
An officer behind the desk steps forward. He assesses me, then frowns. I can understand why, sort of. I don't look like any of these people. I’m dressed for work since I came straight from the office. “Can I help you?”
“I was hoping I could see Detective Ken Miller?”
“Sure, and you are?” he asks, so bored it sounds like he’s about to yawn.
Most of the people in these types of jobs are overworked and underpaid, so I force myself to bite back a sarcastic reply at his dismissive tone. “I'm Bianca Cole. He used to be my father’s partner. I was hoping I could say hello.”
“I see.” He nods toward the chairs. “Have a seat. I'll call him and see if he has a minute to see you.”
I turn around and walk towards the chairs before I sink into one. I chew on my bottom lip anxiously while tapping my ballet flats against the floor. Dad would absolutely murder me if he knew I was here.
Paranoia skates down my spine, and I find myself peering around the room, half-expecting him to pop out of one of the offices any second. It’s bad enough that he’s been blowing up my phone all day, telling me we need to talk ASAP but never explaining what we need to talk about. There’s no guessing what it could be that has him coming unglued.
As if on cue, my phone buzzes again, glowing brightly in my purse. I don’t even bother to look at it, and instead ignore the call in favor of going back to looking around, nervously wondering if maybe this mistake will blow up in my face.
It's been two days since the showdown in the kitchen, but it feels like weeks. My father’s been impossible to talk to since then and essentially nonexistent. I never even saw him yesterday—I'm not sure he ever came home after work. I know his tactic is to ignore me, to try and punish me for being an adult and having a life that isn’t centered around him. It’s how he is, how he has been since my mom died, but it can’t be that way forever.
It’s why I’m here now. Ken might have more insight than Dad would ever give me. Plus, the two of them got together less than a week ago, so they might have discussed my mother’s death or Callum since that’s mainly the person at the front of his mind all the time.
It's not even two minutes before a familiar man comes striding down the hall, his heavy footfalls bounce off the linoleum, and his lips turn up into a smile once he recognizes me.
“Bianca, is that you? How is it even possible? The last time I saw you… goodness. You were just becoming a teenager.” Ken’s dark hair is graying a little, and the laugh lines around his eyes are deeper than I remember them ever being. None of that matters though, because he still has the same friendly smile that always made me feel safe when he’d visit the house. Back then, he’d ruffle my hair. Now I’m a bit too old for that.
