Explosive

28 || Someone Familiar

~Dedicated to darah-roselle for taking the time to read Explosive and for the sweet comments. Be sure to check out her works, System of Lunacy and The Dusk. Both of these stories are very well-written and the plots are so damn interesting. :)

Entering an empty apartment isn't something new to me. My mom used to work late shifts very frequently when I was a kid. But this time it's different. The apartment feels hollow and cold. All our stuff is still there. Pictures hang on the wall; pillows lay strewn across the tiny couch and it still smells like home. It just doesn't feel like home. There is no home if you don't have anything to share it with.

A wave of dizziness passes over me. "I can't breathe," I choke out. My heart hammers violently against my chest. It feels like someone is squeezing my throat. No matter how hard I try I can't seem to breathe. My aunt guides me to the couch and I place my head on my knees.

Sobs escape my mouth as I tremble. "It will be okay, sweetheart. Just breathe," my aunt whispers, rubbing my back slowly. No matter what anyone said about that day, there was only one person to blame for my mom's death. That person is me. If I had just kept my mouth shut, she would be here with me.

"It's my fault," I say, shutting my eyes to block out all the memories that are starting to flood through my mind.

"It's not, Audrey. The person who pulled the trigger is the only one to blame." It's easy for her to say that. She wasn't there when it happened. She tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear before moving away from me. Trembling, I let my eyes pass over the entire apartment. They land on the picture frame that sits on the TV.

My hands shake as I reach out for it. Looking at it now, I realize that the face is all wrong. There is no way that this man is related to me. His eyes are brown, unlike mine, and the features are too sharp. Tears stream down my face and land on the picture of the man. The frame slips from my hand and crashes to the floor. I don't even flinch. Instead, I bend down to pick up the picture.

It's from a magazine. All this time, I believed that this man was my father. Turns out that he is just a stranger. Just like my mom. I should feel anger towards her but instead, all I feel is empty inside. My aunt pokes her head out from the kitchen, her eyes widening at the sight before her. She opens her mouth to say something but is interrupted by a knock at the door.

A woman wearing a neatly pressed uniform strolls in. Her mouth is a straight line and eyebrows furrowed. A young man trails after her, his sharp grey eyes glancing around the room nervously. The woman looks at the mess at my feet and takes a step back, almost barreling into my aunt. "Ms. Moore. How are you doing?"

Shrugging, I step over the glass and level my gaze at Glenda. "How is the investigation going?"

"Please take a seat," Glenda says with a wave of her hand. It's almost as if I am the guest and not her. Wordlessly I fall onto my mom's armchair while my aunt and Glenda claim the ratty old couch. We don't exchange pleasantries as the officer sets a file onto the coffee table. "We have a new lead. By the way, this is my new partner, Detective Miller," she mumbles, motioning to the man who stands with his hands behind his back. She doesn't seem happy about the new arrangement. Detective Glenda is the kind of woman who enjoys working alone.

"It's nice to meet you," I say to the new detective. He looks so familiar but I avoid the nagging feeling and focus on the file that sits on the table. "What kind of leads?" I sniffle. There were no cameras at the crime scene and nobody inside the shop saw the car the guys drove off in. Despite this, I am still hopeful that we will catch my mom's killer.

"We recently found the charred remains of a car," she replies curtly, sliding a picture towards me. The camera captured exactly that; a car burned completely to the crisp. "Now, it is possible that this car is unrelated to the robbery but we are hopeful."

Hopeful. Such a powerful word. The picture isn't a lot but it is enough to keep me hopeful, to keep that fire burning within me. I look at the tiny pieces of glass in front of the TV, considering her words. "How about the tattoo?" I ask.

She takes in a sharp breath and pulls out another piece of paper from the file. It's a printed version of my sketch. Seeing it causes my head to spin. "We are currently looking into it."

"Okay," I say to her.

The young cop clears his throat. "Ms. Moore, we will try our best to get to the bottom of this." I cock my head at him and squint my eyes. Why does he look so familiar?

"Thank you. I really appreciate the help," I say in response, shaking my head. My aunt hasn't spoken a word until now. Her hands are wringing a tissue paper, while her eyes are starting to fill with tears. I was so focused on my own grief and trying to avoid the overwhelming darkness, I lost sight of the fact that my aunt lost someone that day too. I experienced the loss of a loved one only once while my aunt felt it twice.

Glenda clears her throat. "If there is anything else that you remember from that day, please don't hesitate to give us a call." Tucking the sheets of paper into the file, she moves to get up, gesturing to the young cop with her eyes. He excuses himself before slipping out the door. The scent of his strong cologne lingers in the air even after he is gone.

"Thank you for meeting with us," my aunt whispers as she leads the detective to the door.

"Wait," I say, jumping over the broken frame. "The little boy at the shop. How is he doing?" On really quiet and lonely nights, I still see his fear-stricken eyes and hear his soft sobs.

The detective's face darkens, her eyes falling to her shoes. "The robbery was a traumatic experience for the kid. He is currently seeing a child psychologist," she replies, her hand wrapping around the doorknob. I want to ask her if I can meet him but decide against it. Why would he want to meet me? As she is about to leave, she turns around and scratches her eyebrow. "Sorry about the new cop. He recently transferred to our division and despite his lack of experience he is ever so intuitive," she says with a roll of her eyes, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Once she leaves, my aunt and I get to work packing up my clothes and books. Aunt Jane is quiet as she drifts through the apartment like a ghost. Her eyes linger on pictures of my mom but she doesn't breathe a word to me about them.