Addiction by G. H. Ephron Page B

continued, “I don’t think there’s room for both of us in there. Why don’t you get out and let me have a go at it.”
    She was watching me, evaluating. Finally, she put out a tentative foot and then emerged from the wardrobe. She stood aside, arms crossed.
    I wedged myself into the closet and, by flexing my knees, I could just get my head in. I felt like a size-fourteen foot in a size-nine sneaker.
    â€œDoes it work better with the door shut?” I croaked.
    She nodded.
    â€œWell, go ahead then. Let’s give it a try.”
    She had to push hard against the door to get it to shut. I stood there, inhaling the dust of crumbling fiberboard, feeling the walls close around me, bands of light sliding in through the louvers in the door. Good thing I’ve never had a problem with tight quarters. Still, I was relieved when she pulled the door open and peered in at me.
    â€œThanks,” I said, and extricated myself, being careful to unsnag my belt loop from the door latch. “I guess not much bad can happen in there.”
    Olivia went over to the bed and sat up against a pile of pillows.
She glanced around the room, from the gray window shade that spanned a large barred window to the small nondescript chest of drawers, to the heavyweight door with its curved aluminum handle. “Mom and I were going to go shopping,” she said.
    â€œDo you want to talk about what happened yesterday?”
    â€œShe promised me. We were going to Beadworks in the Square.”
    â€œOlivia, I can hold the police off for a couple of days. At least until you’re back to some equilibrium. But there’s a detective who’s going to want to talk to you. It’s not going to take him too long to figure out that your fingerprints are on the gun.”
    â€œYou think I killed my mother?” The words floated in the air, emotionless.
    â€œNo, I don’t,” I said slowly.
    Olivia twisted one of the rings on her thumb. She pulled it off, chewed on it, and put it back on. “We were going to get the cobalt beads, and the turquoise … .” she murmured.
    â€œIt would help if I knew what happened,” I persisted.
    A tear squeezed out of Olivia’s eye. “I don’t know what happened,” she said. “I was supposed to meet her in her office. I was late. I’m always late. She hates that about me.” A tear appeared at the corner of the other eye.
    â€œDid you hear the gunshot?” I asked.
    Olivia looked away. Then she squinted up at me. “No, I didn’t. When I got there, she was …” She stopped, unable to form the next word.
    â€œAnd where was the gun?”
    â€œIn her hand.”
    â€œWhy did you take it?”
    Olivia stared at her own hands. “We were going to go to the bead store,” she whimpered. She turned away from me and curled up into a ball. “I want all different colors,” she said in a monotone, “and I don’t want to talk to cops. No cops.” Olivia started humming under her breath.
    â€œOlivia, I’d like to call Dr. Smythe-Gooding.”
    Olivia hummed louder and curled tighter.

    â€œI need your permission to talk to Dr. Smythe-Gooding,” I said, my voice clear and intense.
    She mumbled something.
    â€œWhat was that? I can’t hear you.”
    She rolled back to face me, wide-eyed with anxiety. “No,” the word exploded. “She’s a sick bitch.”
    I tried to keep my face neutral. “If you’re not going to talk to me, and you won’t let me talk to Dr. Smythe-Gooding, then how am I going to figure out how to help you?”
    Olivia contemplated me. I could feel the wheels turning, calculating. “It’s hereditary, isn’t it?”
    â€œWhat?” I asked, though I was pretty sure I knew what the it was.
    â€œSuicide.”
    I could have given her a canned response: No, suicide does not run in families. So definite and reassuring.