“Get off my fucking property, you two-timed homos,” said a voice more akin to a cartoon witch’s cackle than the actual cartoon witch.
I glanced at Xander, shrugging, and whispered, “What’s that even mean? Should I be offended? I’m flattered and all that she thinks we’re together—you’re way out of my league—but I’m confused.”
“Ma’am,” Xander called out, “my friend and I are here on official business regarding an Annabel Nevis. We would appreciate if you could spare a second of your time to answer some questions.”
A pregnant silence followed his declaration.
I leaned over to him and said, “Do you think she’s loading her shotgun right now? I’m not ready to die. I’m too young and beautiful—though, that’s how the best of them go out. On top of the world with everything to lose. I guess that’s where the comparison ends, though. I’m more at rock bottom with nothing—”
About ninety-two latches from behind the door unlocked. The door opened, revealing a hefty woman of about sixty and a noxious odor that about knocked me on my ass. Her eyes drooped and she had a thicker mustache than I could ever dream of growing, yet the hair on her head grew in thin, snowy patches.
“You two lovers? I been seeing on the news about all them homos getting married. End of the world, I tell you. You’ll go straight to hell and burn for eternity.”
“Actually,” I said, “Xander here is a very gentle lover. Let me tell you, I’m spoiled with a trip to heaven every night—sometimes twice. If hell is my punishment… so be it.”
Xander cleared his throat and wiped his hands on his slacks. Knowing him, he probably agreed with Ms. Crazy’s perspective on the matter. He skirted over the topic and said, “Excuse my friend. We’re investigators, not lovers—contrary to what he said. Do you know Annabel Nevis?”
“I’m her mom,” the lady said.
Before I could shove my foot in my mouth, Xander said, “I work for a special investigative agency, and I recently came across the statements Annabel gave to the PPD and EDSO ten years ago. If you don’t mind, my friend and I would like to come inside and ask you some questions about your daughter.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because we don’t think your daughter lied about what happened that day. And we might be able to find out what actually murdered your son.”
The woman turned her head and looked back into her dimly lit home as if looking for assurance, then nodded and unlocked the security door. After opening that, she said, “Come in. You can sit at the kitchen table.”
An overwhelming stench of sour piss and unflushed feces smacked me as I stepped into her home. I coughed out of reflex to the odor, and Xander nudged me with his elbow. The door led us into the living room, which was a hoarder’s dream. Boxes were stacked up to the ceiling. Old newspapers were bundled together in short columns. Tied trash bags and loose garbage and old junk and tattered clothes were scattered over every square inch of available floor. The woman crossed over it all like a second carpet and walked around the corner, presumably into the kitchen. My eyes locked onto—and I’m not even kidding you—a pile of dried shit resting atop a lining of paper towels. Not like a single shit either, but a fucking human litter box. I didn’t cough, but straight gagged, trying not to vomit.
Xander, still glaring at me, whispered, “Get it together.”
I don’t know how he managed such poise as he followed the woman into the kitchen. My skin crawled, as if the bacteria that festered and lingered within those walls clung to my body and skittered around my limbs. With all my open wounds, I felt less than okay about wading further into her house, but I held my breath and rounded the corner into the kitchen.
Rotten fruits and vegetables lay on the grimy, crumb-littered counters. Dirty paper plates stood piled in the sink, as if she might actually wash and reuse them. A table was placed in a nook area, covered in soda cans and used napkins and old photographs—the kind that people used to have before cell phones.
With a bazillion comments sprinting through my mind, my head about exploded trying to keep them bottled up. But I didn’t dare open my mouth in that sty, fearing what might creep onto my tongue and into my body if I did. I read somewhere that feces particles were thrown across the bathroom if you didn’t lower the toilet seat before you flushed. Well, what about if you didn’t even use a toilet? Where did the feces particles go then? I didn’t want to find out—not in the least. I bit my lip, resigning my quick wit and allowing Xander to take over.
He actually sat his fancy-ass suit on one of the chairs at the table. His face gave away no emotion. He could have been catching rays on a private beach for all you could tell. “Thank you for sitting down with us,” he said, folding his hands atop the table. “And I apologize for my manners. My names is Alexander Shells. This is my colleague, Joseph Hunter.” He gestured toward me.
The woman stood in the center of the kitchen, her pale skin splotchy with rash. “I’m Sandy,” she said. “Would you like some coffee or water?”
I nearly vomited all over the floor at the mention of consuming anything she offered.
“No thank you,” Xander said, his voice calm and reassuring. “We only have a few questions.”
“You really think…” Sandy began, stopping. Her eyes widened and her mouth flapped as she tried to find the words. “You think she told the truth?”
“Your daughter?” Xander asked. “Annabel? I believe her story. Do you not?”
“Do you mind if I make myself coffee? I… I get nervous easily and it helps to stay busy.”
“Please,” Xander said. “Make me some, too. I would enjoy a
