I did not ask him for the names right away.
I already knew them.
Still, hearing them out loud made something cold move through me.
Gerald Whitaker.
Patricia Whitaker.
Lydia Whitaker.
My father.
My mother.
My sister.
Officer Hughes kept talking, explaining what he needed, asking whether there had been prior conflict, whether the suspects had reason to believe I still lived there, whether I had documentation proving the sale.
I answered in the simplest words I could manage because there are moments when your body does not have room for full sentences.
Yes, I sold the house.
Yes, I moved.
Yes, they had been demanding money.
Yes, I had records.
Yes, I had saved everything.
Five years earlier, I still believed that if I explained myself clearly enough, my family would eventually hear me.
That belief died at a Sunday dinner.
