The Last Party

by A.R. Torre

Under the Truth column, I put the details of the potential crime. WHO: Me. In order for this to work, I couldn’t use any accomplices. No loose ends. No potential snitches. I would have to pull off the murders myself. WHAT: A recreation of the Folcrum Party event I grinned as I wrote it down and resisted the urge to put a smiley face at the end. WHEN: Sophie’s 12th birthday party (August 13th) WHERE: In her bedroom WHY: To cast doubt on Leewood’s guilt and trigger an appeal/mistrial. To justify me stepping forward and becoming involved in his defense. Right now, if I pushed harder with an attorney or reached out to Leewood directly . . . my motives would be called into question. Grant would likely divorce me. It would be a disaster from the start. But if my daughter were killed by the “true” Folcrum Party murderer . . . a grieving mother’s quest for justice wouldn’t be questioned—it would be applauded.

WTF

“I know that story,” he said slowly, “because my wife told it to my daughter when she was six.” He took off his glasses and placed them on the table. “A story that she heard from her father.” A story that she heard from her father. Piketo was a story I’d made up, the name borrowed from a guy I’d once worked with, the tale created with the purpose of making sure my daughter understood the repercussions that could happen if she ever told people about things that were better kept private. Things like the videos I used to film of her friends at her sleepovers. Things like the special showers I would give to those friends. Things like what those friends would tell her and how she needed to handle that.

I was probably what made Jenny the way she was. If not my parenting, then my genes. Something somewhere had broken in the chain to cause an innocent little baby to become whatever Jenny Folcrum grew into.

“I don’t believe that you killed my sister.” His face tightened, and I could see the toll it took, saying that. “But if you didn’t, and there was no evidence of an intruder, and you’ve never been able to point a finger at the intruder, then it really only leaves one possible killer. My wife.” His mouth trembled, and he pinned his lips together, his eyes growing moist as he looked to the side, trying to contain his emotion. It wasn’t easy, but I kept my trap shut and waited for him to get himself under control. He finally did, then continued on. “I do believe that you loved her in some fucked-up way, so that’s the only logical explanation of why you tried to kill her. You walked in on her . . . what? What was she doing?” I shook my head. “You don’t want to go down this path. I’m telling you, you don’t.” “I do,” he rasped. “I need to know.” “She was your sister, man. You’ve seen the photos of it. You know what happened.” I looked down, trying to block the memories before they pushed into my head. “I was too late when I walked in. There wasn’t anything I could do. I tried . . . I felt for a pulse. I tried CPR, but they were gone.” She’d pouted the entire time. When I had bent over them, panicking, putting my mouth to theirs, pushing on their chests, shaking them . . . She had glared at me from the other side of the picnic blanket. “God, you ruin everything,” she had said. “Just like before.” I had never wanted to believe that she’d had something to do with her mom’s death. Ev...

Maybe I was broken, but I was suddenly looking at the act of murder in a new light. I could suddenly imagine killing this woman . . . this beautiful carcass of a person with a rotten inside. What kind of woman married the brother of the little girl she’d murdered? What kind of woman let her father sit in prison for decades for her crimes? What kind of woman did I marry?

“Tell me why you killed Lucy.” Because he wanted her. Her and Kitty and everyone except for me. He had special time with them, special relationships with them—and I got the leftovers. The dirty laundry, the dinner and dishes, the half hour of television before he fell asleep in the recliner. My birthday was supposed to be all about me, but when I’d opened my presents, there were two that weren’t for me—one for each of them. I could tell they were from my dad because he sucked at wrapping and always wrote my name directly on the paper in black Sharpie. It was my birthday, and he had gotten presents for them.