Sweet Nothing Read Online Free PDF Page B

get nervous. No cop ever brought good news. The detective smiles when I open the door.
    “Good afternoon,” he says. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m here about the boy who was killed yesterday, down at 1238?”
    His eyes meet mine, and he tries to read me. I keep my face blank. At least I hope I keep it blank.
    “Can you believe that?” I say.
    “Breaks your heart.”
    “It sure does.”
    The detective tugs his mustache and says, “Well, what I’m doing is going door to door and asking if anybody saw something that might help us catch whoever did it. Were you at home when the shooting occurred?”
    “I was here,” I say, “but I didn’t see anything.”
    “Nothing?” He knows I’m lying. “All that commotion?”
    “I heard the sirens afterward, and that’s when I came out. Someone told me what happened, and I went right back inside. I don’t need to be around that kind of stuff.”
    The detective nods thoughtfully, but he’s looking past me into the house.
    “Maybe someone else, then,” he says. “Someone in your family?”
    “Nobody saw anything.”
    “You’re sure?”
    Like I’m stupid. Like all he has to do is ask twice.
    “I’m sure,” I say.
    He’s disgusted with me, and to tell the truth, I’m disgusted with myself. But I can’t get involved, especially not with Lorena and Brianna staying here. A motorcycle drives by with those exhaust pipes that rattle your bones. The detective turns to watch it pass, then reaches into his pocket and hands me a card with his name and number on it.
    “If you hear something, I’d appreciate it if you give me a call,” he says. “You can do it confidentially. You don’t even have to leave your name.”
    “I hope you catch him,” I say.
    “That’s up to your neighborhood here. The only way that baby is going to get justice is if a witness comes forward. Broad daylight, Sunday afternoon. Someone saw something, and they’re just as bad as the killer if they don’t step up.”
    Tough talk, but he doesn’t live here. No cops do.
    He pulls out a handkerchief and mops the sweat off his head as he walks away, turns up the street toward Rudolfo’s place.
      
    MY HEART IS racing. I lie on the couch and let the fans blow on me. The ice cream truck drives by, playing its little song, and I close my eyes for a minute. Just for a minute.
    A noise. Someone coming in the front door. I sit up, lost, then scared. The TV remote is clutched in my fist like I’m going to throw it. I put it down before Lorena sees me. I must have dozed off.
    “What’s wrong?” she says.
    “Where have you been?” I reply, going from startled to irritated in a second.
    “Out,” she says.
    Best to leave it at that, I can tell from her look. She’s my oldest, thirty-five now, and we’ve been butting heads since she was twelve. If you ask her, I don’t know anything about anything. She’s raising Brianna different than I raised her. They’re more like friends than mother and daughter. They giggle over boys together, wear each other’s clothes. I don’t think it’s right, but we didn’t call each other for six months when I made a crack about it once, so now I bite my tongue.
    I have to tell her what happened with Brianna, though. I keep my voice calm so she can’t accuse me of being hysterical; I stick to the facts: A, B, C, D. The questions she asks, however, and the way she asks them make it clear she’s looking for a reason to get mad at me instead of at her daughter:
    “What do you mean, the back door was open?”
    “She acted guilty? How?”
    “Did you actually see a boy?”
    It’s like talking to a lawyer. I’m all worn out by the time I finish the story and she goes to the bedroom. Maybe starting dinner will make me feel better. We’re having spaghetti. I brown some hamburger, some onions and garlic, add a can of tomato sauce, and set it to simmer so it cooks down nice and slow.
    Lorena and Brianna come into the kitchen while I’m chopping