* * *
The family gathered in Faith Hobbes' apartment, hoping the gilt was soundproof. Nothing about Faith Hobbes was subtle, neither her demeanor nor her taste. Gold cascaded from the ceiling, covering as many surfaces as was allowed by the conventions of good sense. Teetering on the verge of overkill, there was yet a delicate touch to the brazen display that let the people she intended to offend still appreciate the beauty that surrounded them.
The three put as much distance as possible between each other, each one closely watching the others. Trust was a dirty word in the Hobbes family, and in the aftermath of tragedy, asking for the benefit of the doubt was a comedy of errors.
“What did you tell them?”
Faith Hobbes took on the tone of an interrogator, hoping to pry loose the locks her children held around their hearts. She didn't expect them to forgive her for her sins, nor could she ask them to believe in her as a changed woman, but for all her faults, she still felt the animalistic need to protect her family.
“I told them the truth.”
Tory Hobbes looked at her mother with blank eyes, unflinching as the dirt kicked up in her face. Putting on appearances was not something she had inherited, nor a skill she wished to possess. Honesty might not be the best policy, but it was the easiest way to avoid being caught in a web of lies.
“Why on earth would you do that? You never tell them anything more than you have to.”
“That's you, mother. I don't care if people know how I felt about him, or what I do with my life. You might be ashamed of it, but I'm not. I was perfectly happy until this happened.”
Faith was confused, she couldn't understand what happiness had to do with anything. Life, to her, was not a search for happiness. It was a zero-sum game, where everyone was locked in a fight for as much of the limited quantity of comfort as could be stolen. She had played it well, had taken more from life than she, or anyone else, deserved. Happiness was a byproduct of success, not a prize in and of itself.
“It's not that I'm ashamed of you. But who's going to trust anything a stripper says?”
“As if you're any better. You play the ice queen. And anyway, whatever they think of me doesn't matter, because I'd be more inclined to believe me over someone who looks and sounds like a pod person.”
“Foolish child, you think innocence matters. The truth of the matter is, no one is innocent.”
Emerson Hobbes had remained quiet, preferring to stand outside the whole circus and watch. Listening to them snipe back and forth became tiring after a lifetime, but provided immense joy in the short run. His spirits were lifted every time a voice was raised, or a curse word was thrown in someone's direction. They reminded him that he was not the only member of the family with problems, and that neither of them could rightfully ever make him feel subservient.
“Will you two please shut up? There's a bigger question here than whether or not some officers are going to stop by the club to get a lap dance.”
“And just what is that?”
“Obviously, they think one of us is a murderer. Did you ask yourself if they might be right?”
The thought had surely come to each of them, but how strongly they had considered it was in doubt. They each believed they were not responsible, but they could not say the same for the others. It was a reality they did not want to face, but could no longer completely ignore.
I don't know about the two of you,” he continued, “but I know I didn't do it. I have an air-tight alibi.”
“As do I.”
“Same here.”
What should have been welcome news brought no relief. It felt entirely too convenient that all three of them had alibis that were unquestionable. It was hard enough to believe a murder had occurred in a locked room, but now that they knew the deck was stacked against any one of them standing out as a suspect, the coincidence became harder to accept.
“What do you think the chances are of all three of us having such tidy little alibis? It's almost as though someone planned the whole thing.”
“Then we know Emerson didn't do it, since he's not smart enough to do anything more complicated than tying his shoes.”
“I'm plenty smart enough to kill Dad if I wanted to . . . not that I did.”
“That sounded like a confession to me.”
“Children, stop fighting. If one of us did kill your father, we're not going to abandon whoever it was. We're still a family, and we're going to stick together. Besides, Tory, you're clearly the better candidate.”
“What? Why me?”
“You and your little stoner friends don't remember half the things you do. You could have done it in a haze of smoke and woken up with no memory of it.”
“Look who's talking. You hated him more than any of us. If anyone was going to kill him, it was going to be you.”
“That's absurd. I got everything I could out of the man. What else could I have wanted?”
“You couldn't stand that he was happier without you.”
“You ungrateful little twerp.”
The argument spiraled out of control, resentment and frustration building to a fever pitch. Faith and Tory circled each other, venom in their eyes, ready to tear the other's throat out. As Tory coiled, her body ready to pounce on her mother, Emerson caught her, pulling her back.
“Let go of me.”
“See, this is what I mean. You have violence in your heart.”
“I haven't killed anyone yet, but you're tempting me.”
“Stop it, the both of you. Fighting isn't going to help anything. We seem to have reached an impasse.”
“One of you kids is guilty. I'm sure of it now. But don't worry, I'm not going to turn my back on you, and you shouldn't turn your backs on each other. We're better off without your father, so let's agree to keep all of this between us.”
“Agreed.”
“Fine.”
They retreated to separate rooms to reflect. There was a murderer among them, they were all now convinced, though they could not agree on whom. Enough misery had befallen the family that they felt no need to add more fuel to the fire. They would keep this discovery to themselves for now, but only for as long as it took to discover which of them was the guilty party. They each hoped they would find the answer before one of them became the second victim.
Chapter 10
Remnants Of Evil
Detective Lane was waiting for his partner to return from the bowels of the building. He didn't lack the disposition necessary to frequent the autopsy room, but felt he was of better use in other places. His focus would wane the longer he stood surrounded by dead bodies, experience told him. Pictures would tell him as much as an actual body, maybe more. This was the wonderful thing about the advancement of technology; one could see things the naked eye could not discern. Lane embraced this shift to modernity, whereas Detective Knox was more resistant to giving up on tradition.
To Knox, experience was everything. Without seeing, hearing, or feeling evidence for himself, he struggled to believe it was real. It was a philosophical point of contention, but one he clung to desperately. Information did not exist for him if it were in numbers and words, it needed to be more tangible than a sheet of paper. Depth was lost when it was reduced to two dimensions, and while other people may be comfortable working with the remainder, Detective Knox needed to have everything in front of him.
“That was another dead end.”
“That's becoming a refrain.”