Twenty-Two

Jones looks at me as though I've just walked in on him masturbating. "So you don't have a house keeper?"
"Not really. Everyone at the house had certain responsibilities."
"What are those?"
"Daniel did all the cleaning. It's his specialty. Even back when Mama was still around, Daniel preferred to be the one who cleaned. Mama was a house wife. So we've never needed a maid. I cooked, did the laundry. Papa handled the lawn."
"That could work for my family too," his lips move fast but hesitant as though he's searching for the right words, as though he's afraid of saying the wrong thing. "Can never get the kids to do their chores. So, who has access to your house?"
Daniel's eyes tighten. "Besides, me, Clara, Aunt Dahab and Ali. Can't think of anyone else."
"You look uncomfortable, Daniel. I hope you understand I have a very small window of opportunity to gather information about the crime before memories begin to change."
Daniel shakes his head but the tightness around his eyes doesn't loosen. It spreads to his whole body. Muscles locked. He doesn't move. Nor breathe. Why is he holding his breath? "That's not it."
"Oh? Is it still the needles? Would it help if we took them back to the cruiser?"
"I'd appreciate that. Thanks, Detective."
Once the needles are out of the room, Jones says: "Take me through a typical day for you Clara."
"Well, uh, psssh. Where to begin? Well, I wake up at five, have a shower, get dressed. By seven I'm around the table with my brother and Papa having breakfast. At eight school starts and lets out at three. Three days: Monday, Thursday and Friday, I go straight to work at my father's company. Doing crappy admin staff for like three hours and then Papa and I go home. On the weekends I work for Aunt Dahab and her husband, Ali."
Jones props his elbow on his knee and lowers his chin into his hand. "And friends?"
I shrug. "What about them?"
"You spend anytime with friends?"
What a weird question. Frown in place, my face grows warm. "I don't make those easily."
"You have none?" He says this with so much disbelief that I can practically read his mind: every one has friends. Healthy people have friends. Especially teenagers. Specifically rich teen girls, even if those friends are like limps?? hanging on for the nice ride. Leeches.
"One." I admit with shame. And I haven't talked to her since I last saw her. Okoh wouldn't understand.
"You say you work with you father after school?"
"That's correct."
"Can you give a brief summary on what you know about your coworkers, you can add your feelings about them if you please?"
"Most of them are just your average Jane/Joe. Nothing exceptional. Nothing worth mentioning. Maintain a positive attitude. They are driven and motivated in their work. Professional. Focused. Great asset to the team."
"And the others?"
"Just one. Zac. He is just lazy and seems to have lost focus, which is essential to being successful in Daily News. His behaviour towards other employees has just been awful. Harmful. He is very difficult."
Jones frowns and his lips form a straight thin line. "Difficult?"
"He takes constructive criticism as a personal attack."
"Can you give an example of this. I want to have a clear picture of what we're dealing with here."
"One time he delivered his article hours behind schedule and when Papa told him how he can manage his time better, Zac lost it. It was a very verbal argument that ended with a written warning."
"It was that bad huh?" His voice is cranky but curious. "You think this Zac guy could hurt your father?"
I brush it off. "I doubt it. I mean he did promise to kill him but no one took him seriously. It was just an argument. It happens."
"This is a great lead. We'll certainly investigate. Thank you, Clara." Jones' mouth parts, but he remains quiet. His frown is deeper now. Forms three lines on his forehead. A minute passes. "Was there anybody there that made you feel odd? That made the atmosphere tense or scary."
"It was Zain but he left. He was fired and arrested. He stole from the company."
Jones perks up. "Oh. That Zain. I remember his case. I'll talk to him."
I eye Daniel's hand nervously. The shaking halts. I stare, burning with frustration and anger. He should pull himself together dammit. He's always stronger/better/funnier/clever than me. Why is he suddenly a limp dick?
"Is there certain aspects of your father's murder that linger on your mind? Something that distracts or disturbs you in anyway. Everyone's feelings and input matter in this case."
I gulp. Daniel holds me tighter. Can't say anything now. I've already lied about the nail polish. My suspicions about Daniel. His involvement. I'd discredit myself. But there's one more thing. Two, actually. "Papa had a scar on his abdomen. Nothing too noticeable. He got it during surgery many years ago. I didn't see it in his body. Also there...there was, you know my father is darker. Black. Super black but his body looked..."
"Wrong," Daniel offers. "Lighter. I noticed that too. Lighter than Clara. Surely death can't lighten skin tone like that."
"Hmm..." Jones says, he scribbles in his notepad. "That's great observation, twins. Great job."
"Glad we could help." Daniel yanks at his hair. He always does this when he's nervous. When Papa wasn't being nice to him.
Before Jones and his colleagues leave he asks Daniel, Aunt Dahab and I to present contact information. This information is vital for the investigation process; many witnesses/family members may need additional questioning. (He says.)