The Yellow Hibiscus Chapter 3

The downstairs buzzer screamed, throwing me back into reality. I jumped, spilling coffee all over the table. I scrambled to the intercom by the door, pressed the speaker button, and asked, "Who is it?"

"Sergeant Wade Willoby. I called earlier," the voice explained. I buzzed him in, waiting anxiously.

Minutes later, the doorbell bleated. Through the peephole, I saw the image of an NYPD badge. I opened the door to a younger, more updated version of Lt. Columbo, one of my favorite TV detectives of the 1970s.

Sergeant Willoby had replaced Columbo's rumpled beige raincoat with a blue, black, and white baseball jacket. Instead of Colombo's notebook, an expensive smartphone peeked out of his right jacket pocket. However, he seemed to have a MacGyver-like personality from his demeanor when he nodded at me. As he entered my tiny one-bedroom apartment, I noticed that he was slightly taller and more handsome than Lt. Colombo,

I stood waiting for the news as his eyes scanned every detail.

"What's wrong with my Mom and Dad?" I asked, studying his face for clues.

There was none.

He stared at me, but his thoughts seemed to be somewhere else. Then he suggested, "Can you sit down, please."

I obeyed.

"I am sorry to tell you this, Miss Shade, but they're dead. Their house caught fire. They didn't make it out alive," he related with concern.

My world stopped. My throat constricted, and my tongue felt like lead; I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. A hail of thoughts and images whisked by as I struggled to speak. My tongue regained its function; I jumped up from the sofa, screamed, and slumped to my knees.

"No!" I hollered. "No! They can't be dead. I saw them a few hours ago!" I didn't want to believe the man standing before me. He stared at me unflinchingly, yet I knew he was right. My parents were dead. I lost control of the montage of morbid thoughts that overwhelmed me.

He tried to help me up without speaking.

I raised my hand, signaling him to keep his distance. I knelt there, my face planted in my hands, bawling.

"Would you like me to call someone?" he asked. His demeanor was calm and professional.

I rendered a hollow stare as a river of tears streamed down my cheeks.

Images of Ari, my' soon to be ex-boyfriend who didn't know it yet,' and my best friend Joni appeared before my eyes.

"But I was with them last night," I wailed between gushes of tears, pushing the images away. "I had dinner there like I do every Monday night."

Still silent, the Sergeant tried once again to help me up. This time I allowed him to assist me onto the armchair.

"Miss Apika . . . Miss Shade, how do you pronounce your first name?"

"Apikaila," I answered.

"For now, I'll stick with Miss Shade. What time did you leave your parents' home last night?"

"A little after ten 'o'clock," I recounted, wiping my nose on the sleeve of my robe.

"That's impossible!" He said in bewilderment, grabbing all my attention. "The Fire Department got the call around 9:55 P. M!"

I imagined I was a sight to behold as he reached for a box of tissues on the end table beside the sofa and handed it to me.

"Thank you," I said, taking out a few, wiping my eyes, and then blowing my nose.

He continued, "According to the Fire Department," referring to his smartphone/notebook and nodding his head as he memorized the chronology of events by rote, "They got the call at 9:55 P.M. Arrived at the house at 10:05 P.M, five minutes after EMS. I got there at 10:15 P.M. EMS or firefighters couldn't get in to save anyone. The house flamed as if it was constructed of paper!"

My eyes flew open in shock. "It took the Fire Department ten minutes to get to my parent's house? But the fire station is only a few minutes away!" I informed him in utter disbelief.

"There was an accident on that route. They rerouted, but it was too late," he related softly.

"I am certain of the hour," I rebutted, "because my Mom followed me to the door, kissed me like always. Then handed me a brown paper bag with muffins, cookies, and the bread she baked earlier, then said, "it was after ten o'clock hurry home and call me when…."

He quickly cut me off. "Did you call?"

"No! Because of signal problems, the trains were delayed. I called her while I waited on the train and let her know what was happening. By the time I arrived home."

"You took the subway home after 10 P. M?" His brows raised in disbelief, but he soon unfurled them as I pierced him with a weighty, 'you got a problem with that. It's New York City; everybody takes the subway' look.

"What time did you get home?" he asked. His eyes seemed to roll around in their sockets.

"I don't know!" I said in regret, wishing I had called.

"Weren't you wearing a watch?"

"No. I don't own a watch," I said, sadness weighing heavily on my heart.

"You have two clocks in here and two in your kitchen." He pointed towards my tiny kitchen. "Didn't you at least look at one of them?" His provoking insinuation hung in the air.

"Your cellphone had the time, plus your cable box!" He pointed in disbelief.

"No!" I spat, hating myself for not calling. "My Mom knows I would have called her early this morning. What am I, a suspect?" I blurted out.

"That's a premature assumption," he said, a puzzling look etched on his face. "Are you sure about the time?"

I glared at him, wrestling with my tears to prevent them from dominating me, then tearfully let out, "I remember her saying, 'It's after ten o'clock, get home safe and call when you do.' These were her last words."

"Do you know of anyone who would want to harm your parents?"

Infuriated by the thought of that possibility, I stared blankly. Easing back my rage, I asked, "Are you implying that it's not an accident?"

"It's too early to tell, but we can't rule anything out. Can you recall anyone who would harm your parents?" he pressed.

"I assure you, my parents had no enemies."

"Everyone has enemies."

"Well, my parents didn't!" I said bluntly.

Thank you for reading this piece. I hope you enjoy it.