On the stand she claimed that she had heard a gunshot less than five minutes before my mother called the police. The police told me that I probably hadn’t heard the shot because I was listening to my music, but at the time I hadn’t realized that Jessica lived five houses down. I was right across the street. If Jessica could hear the gunshot from that distance I should have heard something. My music hadn’t been that loud. Jessica also claimed she had heard my mother and Nick arguing on the street several days before the murder. She said my mother was threatening him. None of the other neighbors had witnessed that particular argument, which was odd, but not as odd as the idea that Nick would have an argument with his mistress in front of his house for all to see. It was ridiculous, and if my mother’s attorney hadn’t dialed it in, the jury would have realized exactly how ridiculous Jessica’s claims were.

Fact: Travis is an asshole.

Even his brother knows it. And he helped set up my mother. There’s no ambiguity there, at least not for me. Just because I didn’t see what was going on then doesn’t mean I can’t see it now.

I was a month away from my tenth birthday and my mother was cleaning Nick Foley’s home while I found little corners of the house where I could stay out of the way. When my mother said that Mr. Foley needed to show her what cleaning needed to be done in the second-floor bedrooms, I took the paper and pencils he gave me and went down to the first-floor dining room. When I heard the doorbell ring ten minutes later, I didn’t think much of it, nor did I contemplate the sound of Nick stomping down the stairs, cursing to himself as he did. I remember hearing the door open, but I don’t think I really started paying attention until I heard the contempt in Nick’s voice when he said the name of the man who stood in his entryway . . .

“Travis.”

That was so many years ago. I suppose it makes some sense that the police wouldn’t believe me when I recounted the conversation seven years later. “Memories are unreliable,” the police officer had told me. “It’s the hearsay of a ten-year-old,” said the defense lawyer who had refused to take up the case.

All true, but I would bet my own life on the accuracy of this particular memory.

If she were still alive, I would bet my mother’s life too.

“This is how business is done,” Travis had said, his voice carrying from the living room where he and Nick were talking. “Every industry, every company has its own religion. And this is HGVB’s religion. It’s our code.”