Shattered

  * * *

  Days had passed since my encounter with Det. Conner, and I had no intention of reaching out to her under any circumstances. The woman rubbed me the wrong way. My sister’s case was just a quota to her. She needed it resolved, and it didn’t matter if the people she suspected were innocent as long as the case was closed.

  My father was more emotional than usual. After I went to bed, I could hear him go into Nastasia’s bedroom and cry. Of course, Sharee would comfort him, but depression seemed to always hit him hard and fast as it did when my mother died. It took him years to get over her death, and I suspected this blow was worse.

  I tended to internalize my grief, choosing to appear like a pillar of strength in the bad times. However, my stoic resolve was sometimes misread as the inability to feel at all. Although I wished I was numb, I could feel and did feel every bit of my sister’s loss. It felt like a piece of me was missing that would never be recovered.

  “Merry Christmas, darling,” my father said, coming downstairs and kissing me on the head.

  Lost in thought, I hadn’t bothered to dress or comb my hair. I chose to get up before the crack of dawn and sit on the couch, clutching my mug of coffee. “Merry Christmas, Daddy,” I said with a weak smile.

  It was my favorite holiday, and for once, I didn’t feel like celebrating. I hadn’t been out of the house in days. I hadn’t slept very well. My mind was racing with all kinds of thoughts, and I was powerless to stop it.

  “You look like you have had better days,” he commented as Sharee entered the room.

  “I was thinking about making French toast and turkey bacon for breakfast. What do you think?” she asked, a smile playing on her lips.

  “Sure,” my father said, trying to be upbeat.

  “My favorite,” I said, attempting to sound enthusiastic but coming up flat.

  Brushing a few loose strands of her blond hair behind her ear, Sharee nodded at me with a large smile on her face. She was probably trying to cheer me up by cooking my favorite breakfast. Although cooking seemed to be a small gesture, it wasn’t lost on me. I appreciated her thoughtfulness, but it would take more than food to cheer me up. Still, I wanted her to believe that it did so that she could feel that she was being helpful.

  As Sharee rushed to the kitchen, my father focused on me once more. “So, when was the last time you had a full night’s sleep?”

  I looked at him as he sat on the arm of the opposite sofa, looking worse for wear himself. “Before the accid—” I stopped myself. “I will sleep tonight. Dr. Jakes prescribed me some light sleeping aids. It seems he received a phone call.”

  He nodded. “I was worried.”

  Placing my mug on the coffee table, I stretched my limbs. “I will take a pill tonight,” I assured him. “I know I need to sleep. I just can’t do it on my own anymore. My mind is... racing. I can’t stop worrying. I can’t relax.”

  My father walked across the room, taking a seat next to me. “I know how you feel, sweetheart, but we will get through this together,” he said, placing his hand on my shoulder.

  I nodded, looking over at the lit Christmas tree in the corner of the room and watching the lights change color. “I know we will, Daddy.”

  “I have a gift for you,” he said, changing the subject as he walked over to the tree and picked up a small gift. “Open it now.”

  Accepting the small parcel, I ripped open the Santa Claus wrapping paper, revealing the plain white box. Removing the lid, I saw a key with an emblem on it. “What is this?”

  My dad smiled brightly. “It is the key to your new car,” he said. “I had Caleb deliver it last night. It is sitting in the driveway.”

  Jumping up, I ran to the window and saw a brand new Land Rover parked in the driveway. It’s ruby red exterior was gleaming in the sunlight. It was a vast improvement over my blue jeep. “I can’t believe it!”

  With his smile dimming a bit, my father seemed as if he was trying to hide the sadness behind his eyes. “I know you don’t feel like driving around town right now, but you were going to need a new car to get around anyway,” he told me, walking to the window and standing by me. “It is an all-terrain vehicle so I know it can handle all types of road conditions. Plus, I had stainless steel brake lines put in rather than rubber.”

  Nodding, I knew exactly what he was implying. Steel lines could not be cut as easily as rubber. He was not willing to take the risk of losing me as well to my sister’s killer. He wanted to take every precaution necessary to ensure my safely. “Good,” I said, giving him a big hug. “Thank you, Daddy.”

  “Breakfast is ready!” Sharee called into the front hall.

  My father and I made our way into the kitchen, taking our seat at the round breakfast table.

  The kitchen was fit for a chef. My father had it redone a few years before. He had spacious wooden cabinets installed with a complimentary cinnamon granite countertop. The appliances were top grade with a six burner stove and a Sub-Zero refrigerator. At the center of the prep area, there was a large island which had a large farm-style sink.

  Sharee carried a large serving dish of French toast and a platter of turkey bacon, setting them on the table. “Bon Appetit,” she said, walking over to the refrigerator and grabbing the orange juice.

  My father dove in, serving himself a big portion and topping it with loads of syrup.

  “Not so much syrup! That is way too much sugar,” Sharee groaned, placing the juice at the center of the table and running to shut off the coffee maker.

  “It is not like I eat like this every morning,” my father said, grinning at her. “Can you pass me the newspaper?”

  Holding a hot pot of coffee, Sharee grabbed the newspaper, handing it to my father.

  Picking up a piece of bacon from the dish, I chewed on it as I served myself two pieces of French toast. “I don’t know why you read newspapers. Everyone knows they are packed with lies,” I told him.

  “Not lies, sweetie. The stories are just sensationalized to grab the peoples’ attention,” he corrected, unfolding his paper.

  “We talked about it in my English class with Mrs. Fayson. There was a study done that said that over fifty percent of newspaper articles have inaccuracies,” I informed him. “Not only are the stories inaccurate, but sixty-six percent of Americans feel they are bias, leaning to one side over the other.”

  “Someone has to be the victim, and someone has to be the bad guy,” Sharee commented, taking a sip of her coffee. “It is the classic story of good versus evil that sells papers.”

  I nodded, looking at my stepmother with a raised eyebrow. Even though she made an interesting point, her lighthearted tone made her sound ditsy. Her Barbie doll appearance didn’t add to her perceived intelligence, but every once in a while she did say something profound that would blow me away.

  “But who holds them accountable when they are wrong?” I asked, drinking my orange juice. “Most people can’t afford lawyers to go after false stories, and they are covered under the first amendment. So, the lie remains.”

  “Most articles tabloids print are just plain weird,” she commented, motioning to the magazine she just picked up. “That is why I don’t believe everything I read.”

  “Yeah, but that is a tabloid,” I scoffed. “I expect them to embellish the truth. I expect a newspaper to be accurate.”

  My father shrugged his shoulders. “That is just life.”

  Shaking my head at my father’s indifference, I ended the conversation, cutting into my French toast and stuffing my mouth with a big bite.

  “I guess the police have new leads in the Samantha Cole murder,” my father announced as he read the story.

  I stopped chewing instantly.

  Samantha Cole was a junior at my high school who was found in a drainage ditch the next town over. She was two years older than me. I remembered hearing about her death when I was a freshman.

  Wh
en I asked about her, I received mixed responses at first. Many people didn’t seem to like Samantha. She was from the rich part of town. She was popular, pretty, and self-important. She mistreated those she thought were beneath her, raising her nose up at them.

  My father continued, “The evidence is supposedly largely circumstantial, but they brought in her ex boyfriend for questioning. Marcus Weiss. Do you know him, Miranda?”

  “I know of him, but he is not a friend of mine,” I answered, averting my eyes. “He was on the football team when I was a freshman. He graduated like two years ago.”

  “They must have new evidence to bring him in for questioning,” he commented.

  “I doubt it,” I told him. “If they had new evidence, they would have arrested him already. Besides, Marcus doesn’t seem the type to harm another person.”

  “The Cole family lived in that beautiful English tutor next door to the Mitchell’s,” Sharee commented, taking a sip of her coffee. “My mother helped them sell last year.”

  Recalling Sharee’s mom was a realtor in the area, I nodded. “It was a beautiful house,” I said, envisioning the large stucco house with dark wooden beams.

  After a long pause, my father shifted his attention back to the paper. “I have to believe what I am reading. The police called the boy in for questioning. They wouldn’t do that unless they were sure,” he said, his face growing in concern.

  “Dad,” I moaned in frustration.

  “What if he... killed... .”

  With her pleasant smile gone, Sharee shifted in her seat uncomfortably. “Michael, don’t... .”

  I gasped, knowing exactly what he was about to say. He was going to imply that Marcus may have killed Nastasia. “Now you are labeling him some kind of serial killer when he didn’t even know Tasia.”

  The notion both infuriated and sickened me. How could he come to that conclusion? It wasn’t even a logical leap. Besides the circumstantial hearsay that was going around wasn’t enough to convince me of his guilt in the Samantha Cole case. So, why would I suspect he had anything to do with my sister’s death?

  Pushing my plate away, I stood up. “Thanks for breakfast, Sharee, but I lost my appetite.”