Bastard (A Novel)

Sarah Miller stayed inside the four walls in her home, reading Pride & Prejudice as she drank a cup of chamomile tea.

Lately, she had become exhausted by her father: She'd noticed that an extra $1,000 had been added to the stack of cash.

Great. Dad's probably been here again.

She had thought as soon as she'd gotten home.

She'd looked around the house, making sure he hadn't hidden anywhere but, after she had examined the house top to bottom, she still hadn't found him.

She'd sighed.

It's not like he's ever really been here anyway.

Out of curiosity, she went to the cupboard the keys were in and noticed one was missing.

It's the one to the penthouse.

As she was going to the dryer to get a blanket, she heard a knock on the door.

With shivers running down her spine, she peered through the peephole.

It was George Hamilton. The detective.

She looked around, searching for a way out that didn't exist, then reluctantly opened the door.

"George Hamilton. I'm here to ask you a few questions."

"Ok. Come in."

"Do you know where your father is?"

"My guess is he's in New York City. He just took the penthouse key."

"Did you see him here?"

"No. I was at the library."

He leaned in, "Now, be honest with me, Sarah. We did find your DNA on the body. Were you here at the time of the murder?"

"Yes, but it was my dad. I didn't do it. He's left me here, I swear."

"I understand. We all think so too. Did you touch the body after your mother died?"

"Yes. Yes, I did. I was forlorn. It was tragic."

"I understand."

"Now, what exactly happened that night."

"Let me tell you. My mom was a prostitute, and my dad walked in the house. She'd had a long day. Been with a lot of men. Ten, I think it was. He asked her if she wanted to bang, then she said no, and he lost it in her."

She leaned in, whispering in his ear, as though she was telling him a secret.

"It'd been a long time. Weeks, at least, and my dad was pent up, but it's no excuse for what he did to her. He started yelling. I could hear it from upstairs. She got angry back and threw a saucepan at him. At least, it sounded that way. Finally, it all came to a head, and I could hear them fighting physically. Roseanne, my mom, threatened to divorce him. He didn't like that. Frank never liked not getting his way. I'd also told her...I'd told her, before the fight, that he had raped me, and she was doubly furious with the man. She was...was about to get us out of that situation. Then, I heard gunshots. I ran downstairs—I'd been trying to stay safe and was recovering from the trauma he had inflicted—and I saw blood running from my mother's chest. I heard three gunshots. I touched my mom, hoping in vain that I could bring her back to love, but she was already dead. I'd called the doctor while they were fighting, but he'd arrived too late. When I saw Roseanne, my mom, the doctor had an empty vile in his hand."

"Any other details I should know?"

"No."

"I can't prove when you were there, so I'm not going to arrest you, and—"

He paused, putting his hand on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry for your loss. Between you and me, my every bone says it wasn't you. It was Frank."

"It was him. I heard the gunshots, and he had the gun."

"How do you know?"

"I heard him."

"But did you see him?"

She sighed.

"No. I did not see him. I came downstairs, and he'd disappeared. He was gone."

As he drove home, George Hamilton turned the interview over in his mind.

No matter how much I want to trust her, she wouldn't want to admit herself guilty. Her testimony is suspect, because she has no proof. Nothing to prove her case. Still, I'm almost certain it wasn't her. It was either Frank or the doctor, and Frank had the gun, according to her. Then again, she never saw him, and the doctor was standing over a dead woman with an empty vile. He'd also been accused of intentionally killing his patients.