With a harsh swallow I repeat what I just came up with as if it just happened. “I came home and no one was there but someone caught my eye as they ran out to the backyard. And then I saw you running into the woods. I was going to take you to the hospital because you wouldn’t stop crying and tried to hurt yourself.” I add in that last detail. “And I almost took you in, but you begged me not to.”

Rising to my feet, my body aches and my bones crack. Carefully, I pull back the shower curtain and pour out more than enough conditioning treatment as my mother’s head hangs in shame, and I lather it. I make sure to get it all, refusing to let any residue stay behind.

“I didn’t do it, I didn’t bring you in, because of what happened last month,” I whisper and my mother’s composure cracks. “They’re going to know about it, Mom, and it’s motive so it’s best we bring it up and control the narrative.”

She’s silent as I work the conditioner through her hair and then comb it through. “It needs to sit,” I tell my mother and she nods. The water’s still hot and the steam smothers me.

“Ask for a lawyer, speak as little as possible. I have the story and I’ll make sure it’ll stick. You just have to be quiet as much as you can and stick with the story I gave you.”

It’s quiet for the rest of the time, the hot water splashing onto my arms and chest when I rinse out her hair. It soaks into my sleeve where the blood resided and I watch the pink droplets fall into the tub. I’ll throw away the clothes. All of them and buy new ones for my mother in the morning.

Over and over in my head, I rehearse our story and hope it’s our way out of this.

My mother’s only silent or crying, nothing more than that until she tries to confide in me, “I wish …”

My motions stop, the lather on my hands a stark pure white and smelling sweetly of lavender.

This time when I ignore her, when I don’t press for more, I know why I’m doing it. I’m not strong enough to handle any more than this tonight. “There won’t be a damn shred of evidence to tie you to this when you go in for questioning. Don’t give them any. Don’t give them a damn thing.”

“What’d you do with the gun?”

“It’s wiped down, and it’s Dad’s, isn’t it?” I know it is. It doesn’t make sense to hide it when there are no fingerprints and they’ll know the gun that killed him matches the one he has registered.

“You will not go to prison for this. I swear by it.” Holding back the emotions I’m feeling, and relying on the ruthless lawyer inside of me, I step away and tell her to comb the leave-in conditioner through, as if she doesn’t know.