The Divorcee Murder Club

Veintiocho ~ 28

                When I pull up to my mother's flat, everything is quiet. Perhaps too quiet as I park the motorcycle on the sidewalk and remove my helmet. The chill in the air hacks through my leather jacket and straight into my bones like a chainsaw. So, I grit my teeth against the wind and jog up the stairs, two steps at a time. I'm still thinking about Chloe wanting to kill her ex-husband, Barry, and the look on her face when we parted ways.

I don't think she'd do anything stupid, but of course, I don't have good luck these days. If I were a religious person, I'd say a quick prayer, so I'll just cross my fingers for now.

The front door squeals as I push it open and enter the living room. My mother's favorite telenovela is playing, so why isn't she sitting on the couch with her attention glued to the TV?

"Ma," I call out, but there's no response.

Glancing around, I notice an abandoned mop and bucket on the floor with a soapy puddle catching a beam of sunlight from the windows. It's not like her to leave a mess like this, so my hackles go up.

"Ma!" I shout again because holy fuck. She better not be keeled over somewhere from a heart attack. "Ma!"

"In here," she finally says, and I jerk my head towards the hallway. "I'm in the bathroom."

Oh, hell no. She better not need me to wipe her ass.

But I'll do it if I have to.

Dragging my feet over there, I enter the hallway and pause. Was there an earthquake I didn't know about? The photos on the wall are crooked, as if someone or something bashed into them, and one of the frames is shattered on the floor with pieces of glass everywhere. A million thoughts invade my head with the possibilities of what I'll find. Yet, when I reach the bathroom, I didn't anticipate the scene before me.

Richie is sprawled face down on the tiled floor of the bathroom with eyes closed, and my mom is sitting on top of him. Somehow she managed to tie his hands behind his back with the shower curtain. When I step into the bathroom, my boots crunch against porcelain shards all over the floor, and that's when I notice the toilet cover for the tank is beside her and covered in blood.

"Jesus, Ma, what happened!?"

"You tell me. He said you've kept him, prisoner, downstairs." Her eyes meet mine in a cold glare that has me clenching my buttcheeks. She's about to rip me a new one. But I kind of like the butthole I have, so I better start explaining.

"Well, you see-"

"Eres un idiota!" she spits out. "Nos jodiste!"

"Ma, hold on a sec. I did not fuck us over," I say, and it's probably the dumbest strings of words I've put together considering the situation.

"How long have you been keeping him in my house, and who is he?" she demands.

"First, can you at least explain what happened?"

"Eres serio?" She scrunches her face in disgust.

"Yes, I'm serious! Please, Ma. Tell me, and I swear I'll explain everything."

"Fine, but I need you to do something with him because I can't sit on him forever."

"Ok, switch spots with me."

Extending a hand, I help her off Richie's back, and she gets to her feet, dusting off her pants. The bathroom isn't huge, especially with Richie's sorry sack of flesh sprawled on the floor. So, my mom and I do a bit of a slow dance, with her arms across my shoulders and mine around her waist as we pivot to readjust ourselves. She's such a tiny woman. I could lift her with one arm if I wanted to, so I have no idea how she managed to wrestle Richie to the ground, but I'm impressed.