Mom’s voice trembled.
“He scratched his own neck.”
The room went silent.
Detective Keene did not react.
I did.
Not outwardly.
Inside, something collapsed.
“He did what?”
“He scratched himself.”
“With his fingernails?”
“Yes.”
“He tore his shirt.”
“Then he called 911.”
My stomach turned.
“What did he say?”
“He said I attacked him.”
“With the fireplace poker.”
Mom started crying again.
“I kept telling the officer it wasn’t true.”
“But Julian was bleeding.”
“He sounded calm.”
“I was crying.”
I understood immediately.
Presentation.
Julian had been composed.
Mom had been terrified.
One looked credible.
One looked unstable.
He had counted on that.
Detective Keene asked.
“Where is the brass fireplace tool now?”
Mom looked confused.
“In the living room.”
“Was it collected?”
The detective stood.
“I need to check.”
She left.
Mom looked at me.
“Valerie.”
“Yes?”
“I think Julian took my money.”
I stared at her bruised face.
Then I asked something I never imagined asking.
“Do you think this was the first time?”
She looked away.
“No.”
