"All right," I sighed, "your turn. What made you think I killed Uncle Jimmy?"

Sheila didn't say a word. She adopted that sullen, teenaged-girl scowl that I was so familiar with, and stared down at her lap.

"Sheila, you're holding onto something," I said. "It's been eating at you ever since Jimmy died. You might as well tell me, because it's going to come out some way or another."

Sheila thought for a moment and then exploded. "Of course it's going to come out, Mama! That's what I'm afraid of! If the police find out, they'll arrest you!"

"Honey, the rate we're going, they're gonna arrest me anyway. You'd best tell me, so I can deal with whatever it is."

Sheila looked terrified and I was starting to worry. At least I had the advantage of knowing for certain I hadn't killed my brother-in-law.

Sheila tossed her hair back out of her eyes and stared at me. She was ready to talk and I could tell from the set of her obstinate chin that I wasn't going to like what I heard.

"Nobody likes Keith. Not you. Not Daddy. Not even Jolene. But that don't matter none, because what we have is the real thing." She glared at me defiantly, but I didn't say a thing. It was her opening policy statement. Every teenager had one. It was best just to let it ride.

" We could never be alone together. Not at his place and certainly not at Daddy's. Jolene was always there, always watching me. So we didn't have anywhere to go."

It was beginning to suddenly fall into place. Her ring on the bathroom sink. Keith looking around the house, pretending he was looking for intruders.

"So you came here when I was gone. You still had your key. It was close to his house. It was perfect." I was angry, but more than that, I was sad. This wasn't how it was supposed to turn out.

"We're going to be married, Mama. It's just a matter of time. It's not like we weren't serious, or like I didn't love him. Anyway," she said, rushing on, "that's not what this is about. Not really." What in the world else could it be about? Sheila's face had grown very pale again and she was staring down at the tissue in her lap, tearing it into little shreds.

"I heard Uncle Jimmy die," she whispered. "That's how come I knew it was you."

I grabbed her hands and shook her. "What do you mean?" I asked.

"I got here before Keith that day and I was in my room when I heard the front door. I figured it was Keith, on account of how he knew to where to hit the door to make it open. Anyway, I just stayed where I was. It was fixing to get dark and I was lighting some candles in my room." Her voice trailed off and I could just envision my little girl preparing her boudoir for her skin-headed lover. "It was going to be our first time, you know, to go all the way."

"What happened?"

"When Keith didn't come right in, I started to walk out of my room. That's when I heard Uncle Jimmy's voice. I flipped out and started blowing out the candles. I didn't want him to find me there. He would've told you and you would've killed…" Her voice trailed off for a moment. "Anyway. Uncle Jimmy said, 'What are you doing here? I thought you'd be gone by now.' And then I heard a gunshot and Jimmy cried out." She stared up at me, her eyes big, dark pools of terror as she remembered.

"I hid under my bed for I don't know how long. After the gunshot, I heard the front door close, but I didn't know for sure if I was alone or what. I was scared, Mama. Scared of you!"

"Oh, sweetie," I cried.

"Then I heard Keith. I heard him whack on the front door and come in. He said something like 'Oh my God!' And I knew then that Jimmy was shot. I ran out of my room and there Keith was, bending over Jimmy, this really bizarre look on his face. He said, 'He's dead, Sheila. What's going on?'" Sheila looked at me for a second, then back down at her hands. "He thought maybe I did it, but I told him no. He just looked at me and he knew. He said 'Your mama did this, huh?' So, see, even Keith guessed."

I was breathing through my mouth, trying to stay calm and focused. My thoughts were racing across my brain like thunderclouds, too fast to catch.

"Why didn't you call the police?" I asked.

Sheila gave me a look. "Mama! The cops would've thought one of us did it!" Sheila looked back at her hands, holding them out a little ways from her lap and staring at them. "I touched him, Mama. I had to make sure he was dead, even though Keith told me he was. I had blood on my hands, and some got on my jeans."

I reached over and took her hands in mine. They were freezing. "It's all right now, honey. Just keep telling me what happened."

"Keith told me to go on home. He said we should both get out and not tell anybody anything." Tears were dripping down off the end of Sheila's chin. "So, I did. It was dark, and I was so paranoid, I thought everyone was after me, that everybody knew what was going on. I kept ducking behind trees and stuff on my way to my car, because I thought every car that passed me was the cops, or you or Daddy or Jolene."

"Oh, honey, you must've been terrified!" My almost seventeen-year-old daughter, struggling with her uncle's murder, all alone.

"I got home and, for once, no one was there. I got to my room and got cleaned up before I heard Daddy pull in. He was drinking and looking for Jolene to fix him dinner. He didn't even notice anything was wrong." Just like the Vernell of late, oblivious to everything, even his own daughter. "Jolene came in an hour later, so loaded down with shopping bags she couldn't walk. She and Daddy got into it over her not having dinner on the table and it being almost eight-thirty." Sheila was clearly reliving that night, her face wrinkled with disgust. "She called him a drunk and he called her a slut. I just left. They never even knew I'd been in the room."

"Sheila," I said, "listen to me. I don't know who Jimmy was talking to, but it wasn't me. I didn't shoot your uncle. Now, we're going to have to do the right thing, and clean up this mess."

Sheila looked up at me, her eyes dark with suspicion. "What?" she asked.

"I want you to tell the police everything you just told me. They need to know."

"But Mama!" she wailed. "I can't! They won't believe us!"

"Sheila, it's going to look worse if they find out some other way, and believe me, eventually the police find out everything." I thought back to the look on Marshall Weathers's face last night as he held my gun up, waiting for me to come up with an explanation. He'd find this out, too. We'd have to tell him.

I looked at my watch. In two hours, he'd be at my front door, wanting to talk, wanting answers. My head was demanding my attention, pounding and throbbing. I looked over at Sheila and saw she didn't look much better. We had to pull it together before Marshall Weathers arrived.

"Sweetie," I said, "my head's killing me and you don't look so hot yourself. Why don't you go into your room and try and rest for a little while. I'm going to take something for my headache before Detective Weathers gets here. There's no sense in us calling him about this right now. It can wait a couple of hours."

To my surprise, she didn't fight me. She walked to her room like a zombie and lay across her old bed sideways. When I looked in ten minutes later, she was sleeping. I stumbled back to my room and fell across my bed; My head was banging against my skull, but that didn't stop me from closing my eyes. It had all been too much, and within moments I felt myself drifting off. It was a relief not to be conscious, not to think or remember.