Dark Justice by Brandilyn Collins Page B

first time it had happened after she moved in, my neighbors called the police, convinced someone was being tortured.
    My mother screamed again, and I could swear the walls rattled.
    “I’m not goiiiiingg!” The last word ended in a third screech. Then another. And another. I stood there, helpless, hopeless, swallowing hard. Nothing I did would stop this now.
    Mom kept at it. And at it. Until her voice hoarsened, and she wound down.
    The yells stopped. The final one hung plangent in the air, roughening my ears.
    Mom swiveled toward her bedroom and stalked away. The slammed door pummeled the air from my lungs.
    For a moment I swayed there, an abandoned puppet. Then I leaned against the wall and cried.
    Lady Gaga kicked on.
    Why had my life come to this? I didn’t want to take care of my mother, a two-year-old in an old woman’s body. I didn’t want to be a widow, without my Jeff. I wanted him here beside me, our old life back. I wanted to feel his arms around me, see his smile, smell him, touch him. He died far too young. What was I doing a widow at fifty-five?
    And now this new mess. I didn’t want to deal with the police. And a murder. And fake FBI agents who threatened me.
    The tears came hot and welcome. Needed. But the crying didn’t last long. Never did, since Mom had moved in. There was always too much to take care of. I lifted my head and dragged in a shaky breath. Dried my tears. A few more came, and I wiped them away, straightened my back.
    Like a worn soldier, I headed into the kitchen.
    For Mom’s dinner, a ham sandwich would have to suffice.
    By rote I made the sandwich, my sodden thoughts turning to my next challenges. First, I still had to convince Mom to leave the house with me. When we reached the station I would have to tell Deputy Harcroft everything. Including how I’d lied to him the first time around. That wouldn’t be fun.
    I wrapped the sandwich and put the ingredients back into the refrigerator. Went into my bedroom to pull the flash drive out of my computer. My hand stopped just as I touched it. I stared at the rolling pictures of my screen saver, biting my lip.
    Did I really want to give away my one copy of the video? Why I would ever need to see the thing again, I didn’t know. But too many strange things had happened already . . .
    With a sigh at my own doggedness, I copied the video onto my computer’s hard drive.
    Mom’s bedroom door opened, her music still on. She walked into my room, purple hat on her head. Her face looked worn, as it always did after one of her episodes. Did she even remember it had happened?
    She might be placid now, though more from exhaustion than anything.
    She spread her hands. “I’m hungry.”
    My head nodded. “I made you a sandwich. We need to take it with us to see the deputy, remember?”
    “What for?”
    “We have to talk to them about Morton.”
    Mom’s expression softened. “He died.”
    “Yes. I’m sorry.”
    “What do they want?”
    “They want to hear from you what a good friend Morton was.”
    “Oh.” Her gazed wandered across the room. “Okay.”
    I gave her a weary smile.
    “When do we go?”
    “Soon as a deputy gets here to drive us.”
    “I’m ready now. Well, maybe I should comb my hair.”
    “Okay. Then you can sit in your chair and wait.”
    Mom fussed with her hair, then settled into her rocking chair.
    A short time later the doorbell rang. “He’s here!” She headed for the door. In the kitchen I snatched up her sandwich, some napkins, a bottle of water, and my purse.
    “How nice to meet you,” I heard Mom say. So polite. So in control. “I’m Carol Ballard. My daughter’s almost ready. She always has so many things to do.”
    Deputy Gonzalez stood in the doorway, a short man with thick, dark hair. “Mrs. Shire?”
    I gave him the once-over. Beyond him at the curb sat a white car marked “San Mateo Sheriff’s Department.”
    “Hannah, say hello.” Mom frowned at me.
    The deputy tipped his head to me. “You