“No talking now. Please, just wait.” It’s always a struggle when a child watches their parent break down. But right now? It feels like that bullet went straight through my heart.

“Let me get you inside.”

“Don’t help me. I don’t deserve it.” She begs me as I pull into the parking lot.

“I don’t know, but …” I trail off as I struggle to justify anything I’ve done.

“You don’t know what he did.” Pain lingers in each of her words. “I couldn’t … I didn’t know it all. I just thought … Oh God …” My mother’s sobs wrack through her and she rocks back and forth. A shivering chill flows over me as I slam the car into park.

Something’s been broken for a very long time. More broken than the cracks I skipped over as my father held my hand down Main Street.

How did I ignore it? Waves of heat and anxiety crash within me. Suddenly I need the cold air outside just to breathe.

The lot is mostly vacant. Which is expected. It’s not like this town gets a lot of tourism.

There are a few cars, all of which are much older models than my own.

I turn back to look at my mother, wanting to calm her down or at least make sure she knows to stay here for just a moment. The seat groans loud and heavy as my mother sways with a hand over her heart, her face tilted up to the roof of the car. Like she’s praying.

“I want you to tell me everything.”

“Don’t risk—”

I smack the passenger seat to get her attention. Her eyes whip up at me.

“I’ve already abandoned the scene of a crime. I’m going in that office right there, getting a room and then I need you to tell me everything.” I spoke it all too quickly. But I got it out at least. Licking my cracked bottom lip, I wait for her to say something, anything.

The nod of my mother’s head is subtle, but she agrees. “I’ll stay here.”

I’m firmer this time, like I am with the defendants. “I’m going to need you to tell me everything.”

My mother hesitates but again, she gives me that small nod of agreement. Not wasting another second, I get out of the car and the cold air is nothing but brutal and refreshing at once.

Sniffing and wiping under my eyes, I brace myself to face the first person I have to encounter, a potential witness.

The check-in area isn’t any larger than six by six feet. A counter spans the length of the room and behind it there’s a plain white door that I imagine leads to a back hall or closet.

As I place my hand on the sign-in sheet, wanting to tap it instead of the bell, attempting to get the attention of the man laying back in the chair, his feet up on the counter and a hat over his face, I see under my sleeve of the cream sweater.