Streetlights blinked on in the dusk, pools of light dotting the street. My gait alternated between a brisk pace and a reluctant stroll as I made my way home. Soon Momma’s house wouldn’t be home. Like a can of ice cold Coke just poured in a glass, giddiness bubbled up and filled my heart with fizzy joy. I had to stop myself from skipping. Maybe I should search for my own place tomorrow, too.

Our house came into view and I found the porch light off, the windows dark. Momma was frugal, but she would have turned on the living room lamp by nine o’clock and she wouldn’t have gone to bed already.

I walked up to the side of the house, preparing for a verbal barrage, but stopped short when I found the door slightly ajar. It creaked as I pushed it open in slow motion.

“Momma?” I called into the dark kitchen. The ticking of the Dollar General rooster clock bounced around the blackness and filled me with a heavy dread. My eyes adjusted to the dark and I made out the outlines of the furniture. The kitchen table and chairs, all in their places. The old children’s song with the line all in their places with bright shiny faces started to play in my head, an odd thought to have when you knew deep in your gut something bad was about to reveal itself.

I stepped through the door, unsure how to proceed. I decided to just move forward. “Momma?”

I reached for the light switch, but nothing happened. My heart thumped wildly as though it were a rabbit trying to escape from my chest. “Momma?” my voice grew more insistent and frantic. I shuffled to the doorway of the living room. The streetlight poured in through the open window and I saw her upright on the sofa.

“Momma?” I gasped, somehow knowing she wouldn’t answer.

I inched closer and wrapped my arms around myself as I tried to keep my wits about me. The outside light illuminated the side of Momma’s face, casting long shadows from her sharp profile. Her eyes were open, as well as her mouth, which sagged as though she was getting ready to utter another complaint. Perhaps she was, before she acquired the three-inch hole in the side of her head.

I stood in horror, unable to move, mesmerized and terrorized by the sight. Time stood still, the tick of the clock in the kitchen couldn’t keep up with the metronome of my racing heart. Finally, I turned my head from her gaze, realizing fully for the first time that it was the stare of a dead woman.

I walked into the kitchen and picked up the phone in a daze. It shouldn’t have surprised me to hear no dial tone, but I stared at the receiver, puzzled. Huh? Maybe I should have got that cell phone before I came home.

Later I would think these strange thoughts to run through my mind, but in the moment they didn't seem so odd. I replaced the phone in its cradle, unsure what to do next. I needed to call someone. Who? Oh, the police.

I stumbled out the door and walked to the new neighbor’s front door, as if I were a zombie, wide-eyed and emotionless. I rapped on the door and he opened it moments later, shirtless and wearing a pair of jeans, eyes widened at the sight of me on his doorstep. His hair was tousled and he smelled of sweat and man. We had never even exchanged a word until that moment, although I found myself thinking how rude I’d been not to make him a pie welcoming him to the neighborhood. My mind tripped on the pie thought. I wondered if Momma had gotten the pies out of the oven, or if they were still in there smoldering to a crisp. But then again if they were burnt, I would have smelled them.

His eyes narrowed as he stared at me, unsure what I wanted, confused by my appearance at a time that wasn’t appropriate to be calling. He placed a hand on one side of the doorway and leaned his weight into it, waiting.

“Uh…” I began, unsure what to say, forgetting why I was there. Why was I there? Oh, Momma. “Uh… I just got home and…” How did one delicately put that her Momma’s head had been bashed in? “My lights and phone are out…and…”

“Do you need to call the electric company?” He eyed me warily.

“No…” I shook my head, confused. “Uh, yeah, maybe. But I think I need to call the police first.”

His eyes widened.

“I think my Momma’s dead.” I scrunched the corner of my mouth as I tried to decide if she was really dead or not. Yeah, she was probably dead.

He left the doorway, but reappeared in a flash a cordless phone in his hand, already punching numbers.

“What happened?” he asked over the top of the handset.

“I’m not really sure.” My voice trailed off as the air became murky and the ground beneath me started falling away. “I think I need to sit down.”

Two wicker chairs sat on his porch. He grasped my arm and led me a few steps toward one. I sat and rested my elbows on my legs, leaning forward. I felt his hand on the back of my head as he pushed it between my knees and began talking to the 911 dispatcher.

I barely heard it, because it didn’t matter. Momma was dead and it was supposed to be me.

Chapter Three

Henryetta is a pretty safe town, so, any time there’s a murder, word spreads fast. Especially if it's the murder of an upstanding citizen in the community, meaning anyone who wasn’t a derelict, habitual drunk, or criminal. While some would argue Momma’s qualifications as an “upstanding citizen,” there was no denying she didn’t fall into the other three categories.

The police showed up about five minutes after my neighbor called. They blazed down the street, lights flashing and sirens blaring. The people soon followed. Kids might run out of their houses giddy with excitement at the first strains of music from an ice cream truck, but for the adults of Henryetta it was sirens. Fire truck sirens would do, but nothing piqued their excitement like the wail of a police car.