The Last Party

by A.R. Torre

“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...