My Sister's Keeper by Bill Benners Page B

situation at all, asking questions that seemed completely off-base. He acted as if he presumed I was guilty.
    When we finished, I asked, “So, what do we do now?”
    He returned his tape recorder to the briefcase and withdrew a set of papers. “First, we get you out of here. Do you have two hundred thousand dollars?”
    “ Cash?”
    “ Or equity in something.”
    “ I have some equity in my building downtown, but not much.”
    “ I’ll have to use it as collateral to post bail. Sign these papers.”
    I had no idea what I was signing, but signed and dated each one. He snapped the briefcase shut and rose. “You should be out in a couple of hours.” After the guard closed and locked the door, the pounding in my chest returned and panic again swelled inside me. I dropped my head against the bars and closed my eyes.
    By 3 p.m. I’d been released, given my belongings, and told they were keeping my car until they’d finished with it. I was tired, dirty, bewildered, and confused. I emerged from the building into another horde of frantic reporters that had obviously been tipped off by someone at the police station. Like children around the ice cream truck, they pushed and shoved seeking a headline and a sound byte for the evening news. Scott told me to keep my mouth shut and guided me through them to his Porsche Boxster.
    Arriving at my house, he had to ease through yet another caravan of news trucks and reporters, some from as far away as Charlotte. Neighbors watched anxiously from their porches as if something important was about to happen.
    “ The best thing you can do is say nothing,” Scott said.
    “ Can’t I at least tell them I didn’t do it?”
    “ You can say that if you want, but no more. You’ll just end up giving the prosecution rope that he’ll use to hang you.”
    When I got out, the mob pushed in around me, knocking me off balance and yelling questions. They tripped over each other and stumbled about while keeping their cameras trained on me. A microphone swung in on an overhead boom and struck me on the forehead hard enough to break the skin. I pressed a hand to my head and there was a burst of at least thirty camera flashes. It reminded me of feeding the fish in the fountain at the cemetery where mother used to take us as kids. She’d give us stale bread to throw at them while she changed the flowers on a nearby grave and sat on a stone bench crying. The fish, some as big as cats, all fought to get to the front, rolling over each other, pushing and shoving like a pack of starving animals all wanting their piece of the kill—their mouths stretched wide like camera lenses. As we threw the bread crumbs, the water erupted in a frenzy of pushing and shoving that even splashed us. The only difference here was that I was in the fountain with them, surrounded.
    “ Mr. Baimbridge, what did you do with the body?” one asked.
    There was a momentary silence as they waited for my response. Did I have any crumbs to throw? “I had nothing whatsoever to do with Ashleigh Matthews’ disappearance,” I said, but before I could even finish the last word, they erupted into another volley of questions. “Quiet! Listen!” I shouted, waving my hands in the air as Scott drove away. Say no more. I started to turn away, but pictured how guilty that would look if I were watching. It was my ass on the line here, not Scott’s. I pumped the air with my hands to quiet them. “I am cooperating fully with the police and trust that their investigation will prove my innocence. I extend my sympathy to Ashleigh’s family and pray that she will be found alive.” With that, I turned and waded through them to the house.
    As I’ve grown older, I’ve noticed that there are rhythms to my life. Cycles. Patterns. Times when everything is going my way, as if I have an angel on my shoulder. And there are times when everything begins to unravel regardless of whether I caused it or not. These seem to come in ten-year cycles and I