There’s just a spot of blood on it.

My father’s blood. My own runs cold as I pull my arm back just in time for the old man to lift the hat from his head.

“Didn’t hear you come in.” He speaks while rubbing his eyes with just one hand and then pinching the bridge of his nose. “Allergies always get me this time of year. Excuse me,” he says and then blinks away whatever sleep he was attempting to get.

“A room for tonight. Maybe the weekend?” I ask and even to my own ears I sound out of breath.

My tone gets the man’s attention. He glances away from me to look past me.

“Just you?” he asks and I nod. It’s a lie, but better that than the truth. Why the hell would I get a motel room for me and my mother when she lives in town?

“How much?” I ask, already prying out my wallet and counting the bills.

I’ve stayed here plenty of times. It’s only sixty-five dollars for the night. He tells me one hundred and I hand it over in a single bill. He eyes it for a second too long before taking it.

It’s only then I can breathe. “Thank you.”

“You all right?” he asks, his lips in a thin line.

I let out a sigh and close my eyes before telling him, “It’s been one hell of a drive and it’s way too cold for September.”

The clerk huffs a laugh while the register clangs open. “It’s only going to get colder this weekend.”

With everything that happened, I didn’t realize my mother was wearing a dress. The top part is a solid navy blue, which complements the bottom portion that’s a dark blue paisley. I also didn’t realize she wasn’t wearing shoes. She ran out in her slippers and I didn’t pay attention to that either.

I’m sure there’s plenty I missed. I got the part where she shot my father and laid there for hours sobbing next to him, though. Hours. She sat there next to him for hours. The prosecutor in me would have a field day with that fact alone.

Unbuttoning the top button of her dress, I wonder if she planned on a girls’ night out to a nice restaurant downtown when she put it on. I bet she thought today was going to be a good day. It was one worth dressing up for.

She didn’t get to her hair or makeup, though. Or else it all came undone when the altercation happened. I can’t ask the first question that’s begging to be brought to life. Did he hit you, Mom? Did he threaten you? I don’t want to bring it up, just as much as she doesn’t want to talk about it.

The navy cotton fabric slips down her arms easily as I help her out of it. She hasn’t said a word, but her eyes are drenched in worry and tragedy and unspoken questions.