Chapter 3 - The Accused Uncle
The air in the death row holding cell seemed to crystallize, freezing the blood in my veins. The two guards, usually like steel pillars of discipline, stood paralyzed, their eyes darting between my sobbing brother and the man in the corner. My mother, Caroline, didn’t scream. Her face, usually a mask of stoic resignation, transformed into a mask of absolute horror. Her eyes, wide and wet, locked onto Ethan, who was clutching my shirt as if trying to disappear into my skin.
Uncle Victor was the first to move. He stumbled backward, crashing into the metal table, his chair screeching against the concrete floor. "No!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "That’s impossible. He’s a child! He’s confused!"
The guards didn't lower their weapons, but they didn't advance either. The room was a pressure cooker of silence, waiting for the next breath. Victor was trembling now, a fine, violent tremor shaking his shoulders. He looked at me, his eyes pleading for a lifeline, but I couldn't meet them. I was too busy replaying the funeral in my head.
It had been a gray, relentless Tuesday in November. I had stood next to Victor while we lowered my father into the ground. I remembered the coldness of his hand on my shoulder—a grip that was too tight, too possessive. When the minister had spoken of forgiveness, Victor had just stared at the dirt, his expression unreadable. He had been the one who insisted the police didn't miss anything, the one who said, "She’s guilty, and the world is better off without her."
Why? Why would he kill his own brother? The question gnawed at me, a splinter under the nail of my sanity. It didn't make sense. Victor was a man who guarded his money and his silence with equal ferocity. Murder wasn't his style; it was messy and unprofitable. Unless the motive was something primal, something buried deep in the rot of our family history.
"You're lying," Victor spat, his bravado crumbling into a desperate wheeze. "You think you’ve won? You think this little boy’s memory is flawless? I was home that night. I was asleep in my own bed!"
He laughed then, a hollow, rattling sound that echoed off the sterile walls. It was a sound devoid of humor, a defense mechanism designed to sound like confidence. "I was asleep. I didn't leave the house. I didn't touch a knife. I didn't touch my brother!"
The guards moved, stepping forward to cuff him, but I didn't look at them. I looked at Victor, really looked at him, and the realization hit me with the force of a physical blow.
I remembered the fence.
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I remembered the wooden slats we had painted white together when I was twelve. I remembered the gate that always stuck. I remembered standing on our porch one evening, watching the rain fall, and seeing the light in the house next door flicker on.
Victor didn't live in an apartment complex in the city. He lived next door. Two houses down. Right across the street from the crime scene.
