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This is about Dad. That’s what this is. The police want to ask me questions about my father.
I was in middle school when I first started to understand. Started to put the pieces together. There was more to my dad, the man I loved, the man I idolized, than the loving family man I knew at home.
I was twelve or thirteen by the time I learned I had an older sister. Half-sister, I should say, from my dad’s previous marriage. In the course of one overheard phone conversation, I discovered that when he was younger, my dad had been married and divorced, and that the half-sister I never knew I had had been murdered in a vicious attack.
I wasn’t supposed to know any of this, and so I kept my mouth shut, but I wondered if that had something to do with the creepy men Dad called over for late-night business meetings when everyone else in the house was supposed to be asleep.
Another time I overheard Dad fighting with my brother. Marco threatening to call the police on him. “You do that,” Dad snarled, “and the same thing’ll happen to you.” I didn’t know who or what he was referring to, but something in the way he said it made me realize it was more than an idle threat.
That’s when Marco left home. Stopped talking with Dad altogether.
Looking back, maybe I should have been more concerned than I was. But when you’re young and you hear your adult brother and your father fighting, making threats, you don’t stop to think that something dangerous might be going on. It’s grown-up stuff. Between Dad and Marco.
And then I got even older. Started to realize my dad had made more enemies than friends in the business world, and the friends he did have scared me. More than once, I was woken up in the middle of the night by voices outside, Dad talking to some stranger in the shadows. I could never hear what they were saying and knew better than to try to listen.
When I was in tenth grade, the police started coming by. Asking Mom questions. Sometimes Dad would come home complaining about cops tailing him around all day. He was a busy man. An important man. They didn’t understand the line of work he was in.
The truth was that I didn’t understand the line of work he was in either.
“Some things we keep in the family,” Dad would tell me. “Some things we keep to ourselves.” That part I understood. Understood without understanding, if something like that’s even possible. It wasn’t my job to get too curious. I took my cues from Mom. Didn’t ask questions. Accepted life as it was. Knew my father loved me more than anything, and that was enough for me.
When Dad’s phone beeped at dinnertime and the color drained from his face and we didn’t see him for weeks, I didn’t ask where he was. Didn’t mention he was gone. And then he’d come home, smothering Mom and me with gifts, and everything went back to normal again.
Remember what I’ve taught you. What did Dad mean when he said that? I have no idea what he’s afraid of, what information I might give the police that could or couldn’t get him in trouble. I’ve never been scared of my father, not a single moment in my life. Dad’s never raised his voice to me or Mom. Not ever. I told myself for years that whatever was going on with work was his business. Adult stuff. Things I couldn’t understand.
But the truth is I understood more than I gave myself credit for. Understood that some things weren’t supposed to be discussed with outsiders. Some things were supposed to stay within the family.
I have no idea why the police decided to start tailing my dad two years ago. I have no idea what they think I do or don’t know now or why they want to question me. But I’m scared.
Scared that some way, somehow, I might say something that will get my dad in trouble. Because even though I don’t get exactly who he is in the business world, I know that he loves me. And I love him.
Remember what I’ve taught you.
How am I supposed to remember what I never knew to begin with?
My legs are trembling. I feel disoriented. A little dizzy. Is it just nerves? I still don’t remember falling asleep in the middle of the day. The mental confusion certainly isn’t helping my anxiety.
I think about Sandy, the woman who led the teen girls’ Bible study I was in for a while. Even though she had a lot going on in her own life, she was always a picture of perfect calm. Peace just seemed to radiate from her. I’m not as spiritual as she is, but I could definitely use some of that peace right now.
The only problem is I don’t know how to find it. I always assumed that once I got older, I’d learn to be more like Sandy. I quit the teen Bible study because I was busy with school. Story of my life. Focus on my grades, get my NYU scholarship. Then I would start thinking more about things like God and religion.
Except now I’m in the back of a police car. I don’t know what they’re going to ask me, but I’m terrified about what might happen before this mess is resolved. I want to pray. Sandy always acts as if it’s not hard at all. You just open your mouth and talk to God. But it comes so easily to her. She could pray for hours at a time if she wanted. I’ve never done much more than the kind of praying you do before Thanksgiving dinner. But I really need God’s help now.
I sure hope he’s listening.
I shoot up a plea to heaven. I have no idea if I use the right phrases. I have no idea if it’s going to make any difference whatsoever. And I certainly don’t feel the peace that Sandy always talked about. But I have to believe that I did the right thing anyway. Prayer is about the only thing I know to do right now.
I wish I had my phone on me. I need to text Chris. Call my mom. Let everyone know what’s happening to me. Dad knows just about every lawyer in the city. He could tell me what to do. He could help me figure all this out.
But Dad’s not here. Mom’s not here. Chris’s not here. And I don’t have my phone.
What’s that verse Sandy always quotes? God works all things out for good. Something like that. It’s one of Chris’s favorites too. I know he uses it when things are going hard for him at home.
God works all things out for good. Which means that I just need to get through this scary part and then everything will be fine. What was that story of the police who barged into the wrong home and then got sued and they owed the family hundreds of thousands of dollars for damages or something like that? I don’t remember the details now, but what if this is something like that? I just need to have faith. Need to trust that what Sandy and Chris believe is really true.
God’s going to make good things happen because of what’s going on right now. I need to be patient. The police are going to realize they’ve made a mistake, and we’ll get everything fixed and sorted out.
Patience has never been a virtue of mine. What’s that joke Christians always say? Don’t pray for patience or God will give it to you. Maybe that’s what this is. Some big test. Every once in a while, I feel like Chris wishes I took my faith as seriously as he does. Is this God’s way of answering my boyfriend’s prayer?
I’m about to find out.
I’ve never been to the police station before. I never even realized until now that it was this close to our house. This won’t take long. I know it won’t. Dad’s probably on the phone now, making sure I get out of here as soon as possible.
We pull up to the curb, and the officer lets me out of the back seat. I tell myself she’s just doing her job. Trying to be helpful. That if I smile and act compliant and polite, she’ll realize I’m not a threat and send me back home to my family. Where I need to be.
The officer doesn’t return my smile, and I’m not sure what to make of that. In fact, I think I can safely say that she’s frowning at me. Then she opens her mouth, and the first words I hear are, “All right, Mia. We have a lot to talk about. Starting with what you know about how your mother and boyfriend both ended up dead.”