Saturday Morning Murderer
The little girl shook like a cherry blossom with her tears, falling on her uniform. I felt like an ogre, questioning the poor girl while her stepmother lay in the morgue still wet and frozen from her fall into the canal.
“Inspect… I only turned my back for a moment and she was gone.”
“Did you have a good relationship with your step mother?” I asked cautiously.
The nimble creature figited slightly in her seat before answering, “She meant the world the to me.”
I didn’t want to assume she was lying, but I guess every ten year old girl must have some feelings toward her mother’s replacement. The heartbroken girl fidgited with a bent ring on her index finger, and appeared as if she would vanish if she clutched it hard enough.
Before the interview was over my assistant handed me the final forensic report confirming her fall was an accident and I dismissed the girl.
At home, I sat next to my daughter, and she talked about Hannah Montana; I remembered the broken ring, and the “Tana” in the frozen ladies hand.