Even Aaron, the secretary, sent an email asking if I was all right. I’m more than certain the office, and probably the whole courthouse, is buzzing with gossip of my father’s death and my possible involvement given the note that was left.

Miller and Judge Malden also sent their condolences via flowers to the office. Aaron provided me with pictures. The prick that travels along my arms as I close my laptop on the kitchen counter accompanies the questions. So many questions but the main one being, do they suspect I was involved?

Sometimes we let our minds get away from us, and I remind myself of that. There’s no way they suspect me. My mother, though? It’s almost always the partner when a husband or wife is murdered. Almost always.

“I swear, it never stops.” My sister’s already speaking, her voice coming into the kitchen before she’s even down the stairs. Her heels click as she rounds the banister. “I’ll only be gone for an hour, though,” she tells me even though she’s staring into her purse, digging for her keys most likely. She adds, “tops,” and like I suspected, her keys dangle from her hands.

Her hair is perfection, with thick natural curls that shine down to her shoulder blades. A black pencil skirt and a cream blouse are classically professional, yet on her body they could look scandalous.

“They really called you in two days after?” I ask her and she lets out a sigh of frustration before slinging the black leather hobo bag onto her shoulder.

“It’s not them, it’s my patients.”

Guilt rides down on me. “I’m the workaholic, not you. Maybe you would say I’m projecting because work is what I wish I were doing.”

“No,” she says and then leans forward, giving me a kiss on the cheek with both of her hands gripping my forearms. She leans back, still holding on to me as she adds, “I’d say you don’t want to be left alone with Mom.” Her diagnosis sinks that knife a little deeper. “And I don’t blame you.”

“Go analyze someone else’s psyche,” I say, batting her hands away, once again opening my laptop and taking a seat on one of only two barstools lined up at the end of her counter.

“Just … one hour,” Cadence says and I wave her off, not bothering to look up and give her more reassurance. It’s her house, her life. She’s right, I don’t want to be alone with my mother who looks like a shell of herself and is constantly crying or staring off at nothing. But I deserve just that.

The clicking of her heels is steady and determined, followed by the front door opening and closing. I can even hear her car turn on and then drive off. All the while I stare over my left shoulder, past the small living room with only a single sofa and one reading chair tucked into the corner. I have a direct line of sight out the glass doors to the patio and seated there, with the same mug she’s had for hours, is my mother. The wicker furniture is comfortable enough, but I know the thin blanket my sister gave her can’t be giving her much comfort since it lays on her lap and doesn’t even cover her upper half.