I did not know how long I sat at the bottom of that staircase, listening to the recordings
over and over again; hearing my mom accuse my dad of orchestrating the deaths of at least
thirteen people, many of whom she claimed had been close family friends - like the Conleys.
I stared at the wall of clippings and photographs. Aden had been tracking us down for
years. He had picked up right where his father left off. His father, the cop; he had not lied to
me about that. I was starting to believe he had not really lied to me at all.
But my dad did.
I was having trouble associating the warm, caring man I knew with the picture of a
murderer that the newspaper clippings and printouts were painting. There was, however,
no denying that it was my mom's voice on the recordings. She believed he was capable of
murder.
I knew what Aden had been trying to hint at when he pointed out the article on her death.
She had died in front of a police station, in the company of his parents. She had tried to turn
my dad in. He had allegedly killed people for less.
I covered my mouth with both hands and screamed. I felt the tears running, unchecked,
down my cheeks. And I screamed.
I sat there, at the bottom of those basement stairs, crying and screaming until I had nothing
else left.