“Why not?” I ask.

Paul glares at me. The detective ignores me, and I don’t repeat the question.

“What do you think it is?” Paul asks.

“Intentional overdose.”

“Suicide?” Paul says. “No note was found.”

“There isn’t always a note,” the detective responds. “Besides, I didn’t mean suicide, I meant homicide.”

My body goes cold when he says the word. The pig asks us if we mind being printed or giving them samples of our hair. Paul nudges me in the ribs and answers, “Of course not,” for the both of us.

Then he adds, “We have nothing to hide.”

Now I’m thinking that was a real dumb thing to say.

They start to dust the Chippendale, spreading black powder over the fabric. Paul goes loony and screams how expensive the chair is. No one pays attention to him.

He stalks off to his bedroom. I follow.

“What are we gonna do?” I whisper.

“You wiped away all the prints?” he whispers back.

I nod.

“They’ve got nothing on us, babe.” He inhales deeply. “We’ll just have to wait it out. Now, get out of here before someone suspects something.”

I obey.

All the pigs leave about four hours later. They’ve turned our home into a sty.

Paul is becoming a real problem. He’s losing it, and that’s bad news for me. When I confront him with what a shit he’s being, he starts acting like a parent. Can you believe that? He fucks me- his daughter-then, when he’s losing it, he starts acting like a parent.

Yesterday he didn’t come home at night. That really pissed me off. I reminded him that we were in it together. That pissed him off, and he claimed the entire thing was my idea and that I was a witch and a whore. Man, what a battle we had. We’re all made up now, but let me tell you something, we watch each other carefully.

Real carefully.

They arrested me this morning for the murder of my mother. They leave Paul alone for now. Apparently, whatever they have is just on me and not him.

To tell you the truth, I’m kind of relieved.

I’m left waiting in this interview room for about an hour. Just me and the detective. Finally, I say what I know I shouldn’t say.

I say, “How’d you find out?”

“Find out what?” the detective answers.

“About my mom being murdered and all.”

His eyebrows raise a tad.

“You mean, how’d I find out you murdered your mom?”

I know it’s a trick, but what the fuck. I don’t care anymore. I nod.

“Did you kill your mom, Kristine?”

He asks the question, like, real cool, but I can see the sweat under his armpits.

“Yeah,” I admit. “I offed her.”

“How?” he asks.

“I laced her coffee with her own Seconal,” I say. “When that didn’t do the trick, I injected her with more. That finished her off.”

“Where’d you inject her?” he asks.

“Under her tongue.”

He nods. “Smart thinking,” he says. “No marks.” Then he pauses and adds, “So you’re a hype, huh?”

I shake my head. “Recreational,” I say.

“Ah.”

“So how’d you find out?” I ask again.

“Two other things set an alarm off in me,” the detective says. “The autopsy report showed bruises on the inside of your mom’s right wrist. Like someone squeezed her.”

“Maybe someone did,” I say.

The detective says, “Yeah, like someone was feeling for a pulse. Yet your dad denied touching her.”

I say, “Maybe she was playing a little game with one of her lovers.”

“I thought of that,” the detective says. “She went to a pretty wild party. But then the bruises would have been on both of her wrists.”

I don’t say anything right away. Then I say, “You said two things. What was the second?”

“Your mom had loads of Seconal in her body, along with booze and coke. She also had just a trace amount of heroin. Too little, if she actually shot up a wad.”

“My needle,” I say. “I forgot to clean it.”

“It’s hard to remember everything, Kristie,” the detective says. “I found it when I searched the house the first time, but I couldn’t take it with me for physical evidence because I didn’t have the proper papers. I waited a week until I had the search warrant in hand, then took it. We analyzed it, found traces of Seconal and heroin. People don’t normally shoot Seconal. You should have dumped all your evidence.”

“I never was too good at throwing things away. Mom used to yell at me for that. Called me a bag lady, always keeping everything.”

I sigh.

The detective says, “Also, we powdered your mom’s meds and found they had been wiped free of prints. If your mom had committed suicide, her prints would have been on the bottle.”

“I should have thought about that,” I admit.

“Well, you did okay for your first time out,” the detective says. “The marks on the wrist were a giveaway. Started me thinking in the right direction. You-or your dad-shouldn’t have squeezed her so hard. And you should have used a fresh needle. And gloves instead of wiping away the prints.”

He leans in so we’re almost nose-to-nose.

“Close but no cigar. You’re in hot shit, babe. Want to tell me about it?”

“What do you want to know?”

“Why’d you do it, for starters?” he asks.

“ ’Cause I hated my mom.”

“And why did your dad help you?”

“What makes you think my dad helped me?”

“The bruises on your mother’s wrist were made by fingers bigger than yours, Kristie. It was your father who felt for the pulse, even though he emphatically denied touching her.”

“You can’t prove who made those bruises,” I say.

The detective doesn’t say anything. Then he sticks his hands in his pockets and says, “It’s your neck. You could probably save it by turning state’s evidence against your dad.”

I don’t say anything.

“Look,” he says. “I understand why you offed your mom. She treated you like shit. And your dad offed her so he could marry his girlfriend-”

“What girlfriend?” I say, almost jumping out of my seat.

“The cute little blond chickie that was on his arm last night.”

“You’re lying,” I say.

He looks genuinely puzzled. He says, “No, I’m not. What is it? Don’t you get along with her?”

I feel tears in my eyes. I stammer out, “I… I don’t even know her.”

“Don’t cotton to the idea of your dad making it with a young chick?” he asks.

“No,” I say.

“Why’s that?”

I blurt out, “Because I’m his girlfriend. We’re lovers.”

I hear the detective cough. I see him cover his mouth. Then he says, “You want to talk about what happens when you turn state’s evidence?”

I shrug, but even as I try to be real cool, the tears come down my cheeks. I say, “Sure, why not?”

Old Paul is on death row, convicted of murder along with rape and sodomy of a minor.

Me? I’m in juvie hall, and it ain’t any picnic. The food is lousy. I’m with a couple of bull dykes, and everybody steals. So I can’t make any headway in the money department. A couple of gals here say they were raped by their fathers, and they wanted to kill their mothers, too. They talk like we have a lot in common. I tell them to leave me alone. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t. But it’s cool. I’m beyond caring what the hell happens to me. Just so long as I don’t die from boredom.

All that attention. It was really exciting.

I’ve got to get out of here.

They assigned me a real sucker for a shrink. An older man about my dad’s age who gives me the eye.

I mean, he really gives me the eye.

The other day he told me he was going to recommend my release to the assessment board. He says I have excellent insight and a fine prognosis.

The other day he also asked me why I became a hooker.

I mean, what’s on his mind? I wonder.

Yeah, I have insight.

And I know what’s on his mind. And I’ll do what I have to in order to get out of here. I need freedom.

At least juvie hall was a new experience for a while. Just like killing my mom and fucking Paul. I hate to be bored.