Guilty by Norah McClintock Page B

“devastated” by his wife’s murder and that he wished that he and his son had stayed home that night instead of going to his place of business, a popular dance club. If they had been home, he said, the burglary and murder never would have happened. He also noted the bitter irony that he had just installed a security system that, somehow, the killer had managed to disable.
    Finally, a three-inch-long article about my father’s court date, plea and conviction that noted Mr. Newsome’s outrage that he had been offered ten to life instead of straight life and his fervent hope that no parole board in the country would ever consider my father for release.
    I read each article over twice, and for the first time I consider, really consider, what it must have been like for a seven-year-old boy to find his mother dead in her own bedroom. I consider also what memories must have been prompted by seeing a second murder—the murder of his stepmother—at the hands of the same person who murdered his mother.
    I feel sorry for Finn. I really do.
    But instead of packing up the rest of my things, instead of calling the landlord and arranging to see him so that I can plead for the refund of the last month’s rent, instead of calling the Salvation Army to see if they will pick up the things I have for them or at least help me get them to their store, instead of any of that, I grab my bag and head out the door.
    I have to ask five different people before I find someone who can direct me to the nearest library. When I get there, I find I need a library card if I want to sign up to use a computer. I have a local address, so I go ahead and pay a dollar and get a card. I sign up and am told that I will have to wait an hour before a computer is free. No problem. I wait. When my name is finally called, I log on to the Internet and type in my father’s name. I find several longer articles about him from the newspaper. I print them out. Then I type in Robert Newsome’s name. A lot more information pops up. I scan it and print out the articles that seem the most interesting. Angela Fairlane’s name brings up a couple more articles. Her father’s name gets me dozens of pages. I scan again and print out the three that have the most information. The only thing that Tracie Newsome’s name hits is an engagement notice.
    I go to the library desk to retrieve my printing, at ten cents a page. Then I sit down and start to read. I read everything twice. But it doesn’t help. Nothing helps. No matter how hard I try, I can’t change the facts. I can’t make my father anything but a murderer, no matter what he told me and no matter what Dodo remembers or thinks he does.

Nineteen
    FINN
    I ’m almost home by the time I calm down, and then I feel like a fool. A complete idiot. I went over there to see her and talk to her. I told myself that it was the right thing to do; after all, she lost her father. But did I ask her about that? Did I ask her about what happened? Did I say or do anything to make her feel better?
    No.
    Instead, I talked about myself one hundred percent of the time. And then I yelled at her. Nice going. Go to someone else’s place, accept her hospitality, spill tea all over her furniture, and then ream her out for something that has nothing to do with her.
    I don’t just feel like an idiot. I am an idiot.
    I let myself into the house. It’s quiet, but I know my dad has to be home because his car is sitting out in front of the garage.
    I hear something upstairs.
    I go to see what it is. The clothes bags are where I left them, but all of them have been opened and everything inside them is jumbled up and looks like it’s been taken out and then stuffed back in instead of folded neatly the way I’d done.
    The door to my dad’s room is open too. I peek inside, but I don’t see my dad.
    I hear something again. Muttering. I take a step across the threshold and find