CHAPTER 2

The next morning, I pace back and forth in my hospital room, in my hospital gown. I need to know who the man who murdered my parents is. Is it someone I know? I think of all Dad’s work friends and associates. Damn it! He was going to tell me who it was the next day, before the fire happened.

No one really stands out as someone capable of murder. Dad only took me to work events with mum, if he absolutely had to. His associates and colleagues would always stare at me or attempt to flirt with me otherwise.

I ignored their advances, and pretended I didn’t hear them or notice them. I instead focused on listening to the speeches.

Dad would always thank me for being so graceful and attentive at work functions. He was proud I didn’t give any attention to the ‘hungry men’ or ‘beasts’, as he would call them. I assured him I was there for the function, and not the men. I wasn’t interested in pursuing a relationship with anyone anyway.

I’ve never had a romantic connection with any man I’ve met. Perhaps if they had a proper conversation with me, something would eventually develop. I’m not interested in them, when all they do is flirt. They don’t even ask how my day has been.

Doctor Wells enters my room with two police officers, and my stomach sinks. What am I going to tell them? That my father was involved in some kind of criminal activity? That he owed someone money? About the phone call I heard him have that night? The look on my face must say it all.

‘Zurielle, sit down and make yourself comfortable. You have gone quite pale again. I’ll bring you a fresh jug of water while you get acquainted with the police officers,’ my doctor says.

I sit back on my bed and feel my hands trembling. I clench my fists, hoping to stop the trembles. The police officers step closer, with sad smiles. It’s clear they pity me right now.

‘Zurielle, we know you have been through a lot, but it has been six weeks, and the longer we wait, the harder it will be to catch the person who did this to you and your family. It’s really important you answer our questions as honestly as you can,’ the female officer says, and I nod. ‘Do you know who did this?’ I shake my head, and watch the male officer take notes.

‘Did your parents ever say anything to you, that was out of the ordinary, that could be linked to their deaths?’ She asks. I hesitate at first, but then tell them about Dad’s phone call. I want them to catch this murderer. I want justice for my parents.

‘My father received a phone call the night of the fire. He was angry at someone. He told whoever was on the phone that the deal was off and to stay away from us,’ I explain. The officers give eachother a look.

‘Very good. Can you tell me everything about that phone call? Did your father say anything else about the matter?’ She asks.

‘He said someone lent him money to save his business. In return, he had to do them a favour; illegal favours. He said they blackmailed him after he helped them. They told him they wanted their money back or to hand me over to them,’ I explain.

‘Was your father involved in criminal activity?’ She asks, trying to disguise her shock.

‘I don’t know, I mean, I never saw him do anything wrong, if that’s what you mean? My father is a good man. He would never intentionally do anything wrong unless he was forced to,’ I explain, defensively.

‘Of course, but when you say he did illegal favours, did he elaborate on that?’ She asks, and I shake my head.

‘No, he said would tell me everything else I needed to know the next day. He said he would return the money first,’ I explain.

‘What did your mother have to say about this?’ She asks. ‘My mother didn’t know. My father said he was going to tell her everything the next day. He was also going to tell us who he lent the money from,’ I explain.

‘Tell me what happened later that night. Did you notice anyone lurking around, or any cars in the street that aren’t normally there?’ She asks, and I shake my head.

‘No, not that I can think of. Wait! That night when they went to bed, my dog Rue ran outside and barked at the back fence. It was already late at night so I couldn’t see anything. I assumed Rue was just barking at the trees moving in the wind,’ I explain.

‘What time was this?’ She asks.

‘I don’t know the exact time, but it would have been just after ten o’clock sometime. I called Rue back inside and I went to bed. I don’t know what time I woke up, but Rue was barking at my door, and I was coughing from the smoke. That was when I realised the house was on fire. I also noticed none of the fire alarms went off,’ I say.

‘Is there anything else you can think of that would help this investigation?’ She asks. I shake my head.

‘No, I’m sorry. That’s all I can think of,’ I reply.

‘It’s fine Zurielle. You have given us a lot of new information, which may give us new leads, as to who is responsible. Unfortunately, we haven’t found the knife used to stab your parents, or your dog, yet,’ she says.

‘Wait! I didn’t realise my dog was stabbed,’ I say, crying. The officer walks over to me and places her hand on my shoulder.

‘I’m so sorry for all of this. I have contacted some women shelters, that are going to help you out with some clothing, and with somewhere to live, when you’re discharged from the hospital. I’m going to give you my card, in case you need to contact me, or need to tell me anything else that might help solve this case,’ she says.

I take the card from her, and place it on the table in front of me, and watch as they leave the room. An hour later, a woman in her fifties enters.

‘Zurielle Summers?’ She asks.

‘Yes, can I help you?’ I ask.

‘I’m Debbie from the Women’s Crisis Centre,’ she says, with a smile, and I stare at her blankly.

‘I got a call saying you’re about to be discharged. They’re just finalising your paperwork. If you like, I can take you to the women’s shelter, where we can find you some clothes and a bed to sleep on,’ she says.

I look down at the floor, and remember the house we were renting. Everything would be ruined: all my belongings, all my photos of mum and dad, my piano; everything. I wipe the tears from my face.

‘I’m so sorry. I know this is hard, but that’s why I’m here, and why we have services to help get you back on your feet,’ she says, rubbing my back.

Debbie is a short, plump woman with a beautiful big smile. She is genuine, sympathetic and caring. She is very kind and lovely towards me.

‘Thank you, Debbie,’ I say, sniffling.

I go to the reception desk, collect my paperwork, and follow Debbie to her car. The drive to the shelter is silent.

We enter the building and Debbie takes me into the first room on the left.

‘You get a brand-new back-pack. These are leftover stock donated from factories. Over here, racks of clothing.

You can take as many clothes as you can fit in your backpack. Everything is mostly new,’ Debbie explains.

I go to the size eight rack and pick out a few modest button-up shirts, a few corporate skirts that almost reach my knees, and a couple of jackets that match the skirts. I figure they would be good for the workplace, and it’s important I find a job as soon as possible.

I find a couple of pairs of skinny jeans and plain white t-shirts. I go to the size ten rack and take a couple of hoodies; I prefer the comfort of oversized hoodies. They’re great for hiding in, and for detracting attention away from me.

I take a couple of underwear packs, and a few bras. I’m hoping for plain undies and bras, but they’re all frilly and lacy, and some, even a bit see-through. I blush at the thought of wearing these, but remind myself I’m lucky to even be offered these. I’d have to go commando everywhere, otherwise.

They have a lot of nice things here. They even have really cute, pink, fluffy bed-socks. I can’t help myself, so I put a pair in my backpack, along with some leggings. I go through the boxes of shoes, and pick a pair of plain runners, and a pair of black flats, with a tiny heel. I figure they’ll go nicely with corporate outfits. I’ll wear the runners with casual clothes.

I walk out of the room with a small smile on my face.

‘How did you go?’ Debbie asks.

‘Good. Thank you so much. This will be a good help,’ I say, grateful. Debbie smiles.

‘There are changerooms just in there, unless you want to walk around in your hospital gown?’ She asks, smiling. I blush.

‘Oh. Ok.’

I go into the change-room and step into some underwear and put a bra on. I pull on a pair of jeans, a plain white shirt, a navy hoodie and the runners.

I step out, and for a brief moment, I feel victorious; no longer naked, and quite comfortable.

‘Very good. Follow me to the next room, please,’ she says. I follow her to the next room where she hands me a gift bag. Inside, I find toiletries: a hair brush, hair ties, tampons, soap, razors, toothbrushes, toothpaste, shampoo, conditioner, and other little items. It’s really cute to find a bottle of pink nail polish in it.

‘Our rooms sleep two women in each room. They’re small, but it’s a roof over your head, until you find something more long term. We also have computers in this room, over here, where we will help you create a resume. We can print out as many copies as you need. People contact us with offers of employment, so sometimes the work comes to you. Now, just a few things. Some of the homeless women here are drug users or alcoholics. There is the odd fight, and some of your items may be stolen. Most women though, are victims of abuse, who have fled their boyfriends or husbands,’ she explains. I nod and smile.

‘Your room is over here. Number eighteen,’ she says, opening the door.

‘Hailey sleeps in this bed. Your bed’s the other one. You can put your bags on your bed, if you like,’ Debbie offers. I sit my bags on my bed and follow Debbie around the building.

‘The kitchen is communal; we all share it. The only rule is to clean the mess you make. You can help yourself to tea, coffee, toast; whatever food you find in here,’ she says.

A few women sit at the dining tables eating.

‘Ladies, this is Zurielle. I’m sure you will all make her feel very welcome, and Hailey: she is your roommate,’ Debbie says. Hailey has short brown hair and blue eyes. She looks close to my age. She waves her hand and gives me a smile. I smile and wave back.

‘Okay, I’ll leave you to it. Tomorrow I’ll help you with your resume,’ Debbie says, wandering back to her office.

I go to my room, lie on my bed, and stare up at the roof. I roll onto my side, and face the wall. I’m grateful for all this help but I’m feeling so overwhelmed, and I’m still processing the death of my parents and my dog.

Feeling depressed, I stay in bed for the rest of the afternoon, and avoid socialising with anyone.