“How long did he live, Rosalee?”

“I don’t know, exactly. An hour or two. I was hurt, a few broken ribs and a cracked collarbone, I’d later find out… but I climbed out and went to him. I tried to help him. But he was too heavy, and he was bleeding so much…”

“You were lucky you lived that day,” the detective said.

Rosalee didn’t respond.

“I’m so sorry you went through that, but why does Tinsley think you had something to do with it?”

Rosalee frowned. “Because I lied to her. I lied to the police then, too. I told everyone who would listen that he killed my mother and that after he crashed and killed her, I picked up a big boulder and smashed it down over his head.”

“Why? Why would you tell them that?”

“Because that’s what I wish I had done. But instead, I lay on the ground and cried for him. And I hated myself even more… for loving my father even after I knew what he was. An abuser, a killer, an awful person…” Rosalee sobbed.

“Oh, Rosalee. I’m sorry.”

Rosalee waved off the detective’s apology. “I’m over it now,” she sniffed, trying to put a brave mask on. “Truly, I am. But, somehow, telling that story back then made me feel better after it happened. I channeled all of the grief and pain over the loss of my mother… I channeled it into rage. I told that story about killing him so many times over the years to Tinsley, that I truly think I started to believe it myself after a while. Even now, it’s hard to reconcile reality with the fiction I spun in its aftermath.”

The detective understood this, in her own way. There were so many times when she lied and created her own stories about her mother growing up. Mom is a super model who travels the world and that’s why she can’t be with me. Or, mom was a modern-day Evil Knievel, trying to achieve a new base-jumping record when her parachute failed, and the stunt went horribly wrong and that’s how she fell…

And then there were times when the detective softened the story, telling her childhood friends that her mother died of cancer or from a heart attack. People seemed to feel sorrier for those who died of a disease that wasn’t invisible like depression.

“You never told Tinsley the truth?” the detective asked, finally, swallowing the lump in her throat.