Blood On Her Hands

Chapter 4

Though I was reluctant to, I only found it fair that I considered the idea that Adonis was involved in drug trafficking. For the sake of not letting my emotions cloud my judgment, I entertained the thought that it could be true. I let my mind picture him up in the dead hours of the night, making phone calls to people who had killed before and would again. I imagined him getting in his faded red pickup truck, the same truck I squeezed into with Nancy and him whenever I needed a ride, and driving it to some empty warehouse. I pictured him sitting on our living room couch, smiling at us and drinking our beer, hoping that the police sirens passing by the window weren't coming for him. He would drive away from our house knowing he had done something to provoke dangerous people and hope he hadn't led them straight to us.

Of course, if I was being realistic, Adonis wouldn't have framed himself as a sketchy criminal. He would have told himself he was choosing the lesser of two evils. People would find a way to traffic drugs with or without him. He was just trying to provide for Nancy and himself. He was trying to give her the life she deserved, a life where they didn't have to worry about bills. A life where they could afford a lavish wedding.

I didn't like where these thoughts took me.

It reminded me of another time when someone I loved and trusted had betrayed my confidence. It reminded me of my father.

I thought of his thick beard and stone eyes. He was a quiet man and when he spoke, it was never for long. He was tall and towered over everyone around him. In pictures, intensity seemed to radiate off of him. It was something about the stiffness in his posture, how he never let his back slouch, never let his scowl drop of his face. He would look at everything like he was studying it or picking it apart. I had blurry memories of my fat, grubby toddler hands holding up toys to him. He was sitting directly in front of me, looking at me but still seeming like he was somewhere else, his ears listening.

I remembered how he didn't look like my dad as he fired the gun. His features were the same but it was like a dark shadow had settled over him, one that disguised any resemblance of the father who had been uninvolved at worst.

The flickers of my life that I remembered from before the incident hardly included him. I mostly remembered being taken care of by my mother. I had no recollection of such tender moments with him. It was my mother who bought me chicken nuggets after school and sat on my bedroom floor to play dolls with me. It was my mother's hand that Nancy and I tugged on, dragging her over to view are latest crayon creation. 'Daddy' was always at work and when he wasn't, he was glued to the recliner staring holes into the wall.

I wondered if Nancy and I had somehow felt that distance between us and our father. If we understood that something was off.

I used to ask why he did what he did for years and didn't get an answer until I was about twelve. It was then Tìo sat me down and told me the full story. He said that my father claimed to have done it because he thought my mother was cheating. There was nothing left to indicate that she had been. Tìo says that it was just an excuse. My father killed my mother because he was evil.

I asked Tìo what his first impression of my father was and if he ever thought he would be capable of something like that. His answer was no. My father pretended to be a nice guy until the two of them were married. By that time, my uncle lived far from my mother. They weren't speaking. Then suddenly years had gone by since they spoke to one another and he was receiving a call that his sister was dead. The truth about my father had came out. He was cold and evil. 

Like with Adonis.

Perhaps my stance on Adonis's innocence was partially to protect me from further hurt. Yet, it didn't sit right with me that Adonis was resorting to crime in order to get rich quick. Adonis showed no interest in being the best dressed in the room, the one with the shiniest car, or having a large house he couldn't fill. He wasn't in any debt either and he wouldn't traffic drugs just for fun. He was missing a motive, that was why I thought the police were wrong.