Bastard (A Novel)

George Hamilton opened the door and stomped to his desk. He sat down and put his head in his hands.

This case. It's really getting to me. I've been up three nights in a row now. I have to get some sleep. This is just too much. Too much for one man.

He groaned.

Maybe I can ask Darlene for help. After that one night stand we had, she's been more eager. Then again, she's more resentful since that evening too.

He walked over to her desk, trying desperately to keep his eyes open.

"Darlen—"

She was nowhere to be found. Her desk was completely empty.

"I can't believe she hasn't shown up for work. What is it with this woman?"

He rolled his eyes and dialed her number.

Voicemail.

"Darlene! Darlene?! Hello. I need you here. Come in. Please. Unless you have literally lost a leg, I need you in. NOW."

He hung up the phone aggressively and marched back to his desk, searching through what felt like a million papers.

His phone pinged.

"Hi, George. I'm severely ill. Don't want to infect you. Have to stay home."

It was Darlene.

"Ill with what?!"

He muttered to himself and nearly typed back, then thought better of it.

This woman. She's impossible.

Darlene's disappearance was particularly odd because she'd become quite invested in the case of Roseanne Miller. She was convinced it was Frank, and was determined to track him down.

She was searching left and right for his whereabouts, and had studied his every possible move before and after the alleged murder.

Alright, George. Give it a week.

George Hamilton continued studying the case, and raised his eyebrows as he learned more and more about why exactly Darlene Mather was at the scene of the crime on the night it happened: She didn't live in the area and she would have had to go out of her way to be at that exact house.

She must have known something was happening that night, unless...

George searched through his many papers and notes on the murder.

Unless, she wanted to be there. Unless she needed to be there to carry out the crime herself.

A week passed and there was no sign of Darlene. She was out and about, apparently, or stuck inside—George wasn't sure which.

At this rate, the woman was going to get fired. Although, I mean, if she was a killer, she would get fired nonetheless.

She is onto something. She must be.

George spent the majority of his days on the case, pondering all of the culprits but knowing deep in his soul, intuitively, that it must be Frank Miller. The only problem was that the detective had absolutely no way of proving this without a shadow of a doubt.

He headed to Sarah Miller's to ask more questions, just in case, but he didn't have enough on when she was there—with her mother—to prove a thing.

She was reading a murder mystery—Sanguine Creek—when he arrived.

She must be innocent.

He thought to himself.

It was her mother, after all, and her father raped her. She wouldn't have wanted to stay with that man. There was no way she could have done it. She had no motive. No motive at all. There was still that DNA, but she was probably nothing more than a distressed victim of a horrible crime towards her mother. She must've touched the dead body in despair or something, not thinking because she was in a hysterical state.

George sighed.

I have no way of proving that Sarah Miller is completely innocent.

George walked home, struggling to put one foot in front of the other as he fought to keep his eyes open.

He stumbled through the doorway groggily, immediately fell onto the couch, and began snoring loudly.