Bastard (A Novel)

Frank Miller walked along the canals in Venice, Italy, black mask on with a black track suit.

No one will find me here. I've got to stay under cover. Everyone is looking for me. If they have it their way, I will never see the light of day.

Whether or not Frank Miller killed Roseanne is up to the imagination, but he knew the odds were against him, and he wasn't about to go back to England, not with the Feds after him.

Detective George Hamilton was convinced he'd done it, and there was little one could do to change the mind of a detective, right or wrong.

***

Back in England, George Hamilton flicked on the TV.

"Frank Hamilton has been accused of murdering his own wife. Just out, he has disappeared and is planning never to be found again. Detective George Hamilton is on the lookout, but nothing can be done. At least, not know."

Fuck. Can't arrest a dead man. Dead to the world, anyway.

George Hamilton called Darlene Mather.

"Hey. Any news on Frank? I need all hands on deck. Now. He's disappeared."

"Fine."

She hung up and he rolled his eyes, knowing having to cooperate in this investigation pained her, especially since she was becoming more and more of a suspect.

George Hamilton called everyone he knew who could remotely be of help.

Nothing.

Frank Miller had disappeared.

George Hamilton collected the DNA evidence and ran it.

It matched Frank Miller's.

I knew it.

Then he sat back, in shock.

It also matched Sarah Miller's.

"No. I can't believe it."

He drove to Sarah Miller's residence.

The only problem is that I'm not sure when she was at the crime scene. Maybe she was simply mourning and touched her mother after her death. After her father killed her.

He knocked on the door.

"Sarah? Sarah Miller?"

She opened the door.

"Yes, detective?"

"I'm afraid we will have to take you in for questioning."

"I-I didn't. I loved my mother. I-I wouldn't have."

George nodded. "I know. I know, dear."

He leaned in and whispered in her ear after making sure no one could see or hear them.

"Between you and me, I'm certain that Frank did it, but we have to follow procedure."

"Okay, fine. You're right, you know."

She glared at him, then followed him to the station.

Darlene brought her into a small room with concrete walls.

She walked in, locked the chair, pulled up a chair, and put her hands on the table, leaning in to look Sarah in the eyes with a cold stare.

"Where were you the night of the murder?"

"I was at home with my mother and father."

"Ah, at the scene of the crime."

She wrote down some notes with a stern expression on her face, her red hair straight, dark, and solemn, done up in a professional ponytail.

"What did you see that night?"

"I didn't see anything, but I heard a gunshot. Then I went downstairs, and my mother was dead. My father had disappeared, and the doctor I had called was—"

"Which doctor?"

"Doctor Heathrow."

"First name?"

"Jonathen."

"Where was he?"

"Standing over the dead body with an empty vile in his hand."

"Where there any other suspects?"

"There was a lady with r-red hair and—wait—it was you! You were there. Walking by. That night."

"That's enough. Thank you for coming in. I'll take you over to George now."

George glared at Darlene, then questioned Sarah Miller in another lifeless room.

"Anything else you'd like to tell me, Sarah?"

"I didn't do it."

George nodded.

"I know, but we'll have to at least hold you here overnight."

He walked away.

"It's just a formality," He added over his shoulder.

Sarah glared at him, tears of anger welling up in her eyes.