Twenty-Six

I square my shoulders, and rest my hands in front of me on the table. About damn time! Wondered when they were going to deal this card. "Papa's?"
Jones sags into his chair. His feet accidentally kicks mine under the table. It doesn't hurt but still I flinch. Wouldn't they expect this from me? To be dramatic, like most teenagers. Creatures I don't identify with. Jones issues an apology, sits himself right. I almost smile. Damn I'm good. Don't show your personality Clara. You're perfect Clara. You're not special. Don't let them see you're special. They must believe: you're just another socially starving teenager, another highschool cliché.
Right on cue, Newin mumbles "Yes"
"No, I didn't." My voice crumbles into despair. Oh shit.
Newin seems surprised by the innocence in my voice. They don't have to say it, but everybody just automatically suspects the beneficiaries.
She examines me with an unusual curiosity. "So you're saying you didn't know that you're the sole beneficiary?"
My throat tightens. How many times will I answer the same question until they let me go home. This isn't fair. "No, ma'am. I didn't."
"When did you last see the victim?"
Victim, I note. My father lived a full life. The least these detectives can do is give him back his identity after someone brutally striped him off his dignity and life. I blink to fight off my tears and poke at the last remaining fries. "At about four(five?)... In the evening."
"Where were you when the victim died?" Newin's voice is light but my trained ear is still able to discern the broken fibres of accusation.
She is sitting on the edge of her seat. Literary sitting on it. Her big, jelly ass is halfway in the air. I just stare at her. Really stare.
I lean back against the chair, holding my breath. My nostrils flare with impatience. "Probably on the way home. I wouldn't know."
Distrust chiselled into Jones' features. "Can you corroborate this?"
"Yes. I told you already. Skylar and Eric saw me. They were playing soccer on Smith street." At least I have the grace not to voice my suspicions about Daniel's involvement.
Newin gropes over her things on the table until she finds a pen and pins her hair unto a loose but well-managed bun. Uh-oh. Shit about to get serious in here. "Did you ever quarrel with the victim?"
Duh.
I wish I could ram my boot into my throat. What teenager doesn't quarrel with their parents? Yikes! The woman has no shame.
"We're father and daughter. Of course we had disagreements," I snort.
Newin makes a tsking sound. "Do you know anyone that might have a reason to harm the victim?"
"Victim." I let the term float in the air a bit. Something about the word rubs me up the wrong way. "No."
"Let's suppose your brother found them in bed together." She cocks her head to the side to better study me. "What do you think he'd have done?"
"I think they would've fought." I leave it at this because I fear if I go on then I'll put Daniel in the hot seat. Things aren't looking good for him as is and it's all my fault. I can't afford to lose him too. Everything is just falling apart and it's all my fault.
Newin swings the rest of her coffee and Jones pushes his untouched paper cup to her. She takes a gulp, thanks him and asks: "Physically?"
"No, verbally," I say as though a gun is pointed between my eyes, hand trembling in the trigger.
"Did they verbally fight a lot?"
Under the table I hit the heel of my boot against the floor. I'm hoping to irritate the cut from earlier this morning. It's a success. The pain shoots through me. Ohh, this feels so good. Ahhhhhhh. I'm calm again. "Yes."
"How did they resolve these fights you speak of?"
"Papa would sometimes, rarely though, rough him up," I lie. Papa had never done such a thing but I know ever since Daniel was diagnosed with Dissociative identity disorder, he can't tell the difference between fact and wishful fulfilment. And since he believes dad hits him, (used to) then he'll probably mention it once or twice to the investigative detectives.
She pushes her shoulders back, leans forward. Her gaze locks mine in. "You mean hit him?"
What else could I mean? "Yes."
"How did Daniel respond to these?"
By throwing a party. "He's just a kid. What could he have done? Nothing. He was scared of him. So he did the right thing. Apologised."
"Where you scared of the victim?"
I jut out my chin and fold my arms across my chest. Grave mistake. Now I look defensive. This is something they'll spot and take note of. A thread of unease curls around my stomach. It churns. "No. He was my father. How could I?"
Dammit, Clara, you've lost the plot. If Papa was hitting Daniel then why would I be so defensive? Why would he not hit me? Shit. I've messed up. Why wouldn't I be afraid? Abused kids are afraid of their parent. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Shock strips me off the ability to say anything. I can think of a quick excuse to fix all this, it's right here on the tip of my tongue but I've turned into an unresponsive stone.
"It seems like we're going to be here for a long time. We found your DNA on the scene. There was a speck of blood that belongs to you, which means, you were there when your father was killed. Better start talking young lady."