What Happened That Night

2

Ruth Anne

Mayford, Texas – 1987

Sittingon my sister’s couch, I shifted my three-year-old niece in my arms. Thankfully, Brandy stopped screaming and was now sleeping. I pulled the washcloth away from my jaw, grateful the bleeding had slowed.

The detective in the chair across from me looked up from his notebook. “You said you were upstairs on the pullout coach when you heard the gunshot. Were you sleeping?”

“No.” I bit down hard in an attempt to hold back my emotions. For as long as I lived, my life would be divided in two by that gunshot.

Before the gunshot, I’d been so grateful for the day. That morning, I’d flown from Seattle to Texas where my father picked me up from the Austin airport with my niece, whom I’d never met before. My father then drove Brandy and me to Mayford, the small town where I’d been raised.

When we pulled up to my sister’s house, I nearly had a panic attack. The last several years had taken their toll on my relationship with Cheryl. Our falling out started with a fight in high school and built from there. When she refused to attend my wedding, I didn’t think I could ever forgive her. Yet, she was my sister. My twin sister. So, with my husband’s encouragement, I tried reaching out. Like our mother who left when we were babies, Cheryl turned her back on me, refusing to even talk to me.

Nevertheless, I’d mostly come to Texas to see my father who was dying from cancer. Reconciling with Cheryl had been a bonus. While neither one of us admitted guilt, forgiveness was implied as Cheryl invited me into her home. For several blissful hours, we’d talked and laughed like old times. Then I’d gone to bed.

As I lay on the pullout couch upstairs where Cheryl had a little sewing studio, I felt so happy. Placing a hand on my flat stomach, I thought about baby names. For a girl, Salvador wanted Lia, after the grandmother who had raised him. Personally, I’d always loved the name Brandy from that ’70s song, “Brandy (You’re a Fine Girl).”

Thanks to my sister, however, I couldn’t use the name Brandy anymore because that’s what she named her daughter. Not that I minded. Brandy was such a sweet child that she made me excited about having a baby of my own. Meeting her today also made me regret waiting so long to come back to Texas and reconcile with my sister.

Then I heard the gunshot, and that changed everything.

Why hadn’t I tried harder to mend my relationship with Cheryl? Growing up, the two of us hadn’t just been sisters, we’d been best friends. Being raised by a single father forced us to depend on each other. And yet, that hadn’t been enough for us to continue supporting each other.

“Mrs. Hermosa?” The detective’s voice interrupted my thoughts. I stared at him, knowing he wanted an answer to a question I hadn’t heard.

I patted Brandy’s back. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“Can you describe the man you saw tonight?” Detective Gonzalez offered a sad, understanding smile.

My heart squeezed tight as I thought about the man I’d seen in my sister’s kitchen. Swallowing hard, I tried to block out everything and pretend none of it happened. Yet, pretending wouldn’t bring Cheryl back. No, I needed to be strong and brave by forcing myself to remember everything so the police could arrest that monster.

Pushing out a slow breath, I formed my words carefully. “He was tall and had this bird tattoo on his left arm. His hair was blond. Dirty blond, but he had these bright eyes.”

“Bright eyes? Do you remember what color they were?”

“Green, I think.”

The detective scribbled in his notebook. “What was he wearing?”

“Jeans and a purple T-shirt.”

“A Panthers shirt?”

“I think so.”

The Panthers were Mayford’s high school mascot. Most residents had at least one Panthers T-shirt. When my husband and I were in high school, his entire wardrobe was made up of purple Panthers T-shirts and sweatshirts.

A light flashed in the kitchen, startling me. I turned toward it, confused.

“They’re photographing the crime scene,” the detective explained.

“Of course.” Pulling Brandy closer, I blocked out the image of Cheryl’s lifeless body on the floor. Thirty-one was way too young to die. Not that anyone, regardless of age, should suffer like that.

The detective gestured toward my face. “They’re going to need to photograph your injuries as well.”

My injuries.