Arthur
My parents’ house looks exactly the same as it always has. The driveway is perfectly maintained. The lawn is manicured within an inch of its life. Even the flowers that line the walkway seem to stand at attention, afraid to lean too far in any direction for fear of being cut away by my mother’s gardening shears.
I park my car and sit for a moment, gathering my thoughts. I still can’t believe I’m here to question my parents about attempted murder. The very thought is ludicrous. My father may be manipulative, conniving, and borderline ruthless in his political machinations, but murder?
That’s a line I never thought he’d cross.
Then again, I hardly even know my father. To me, he’s just the drill sergeant who raised me for his own political gain.
With a deep breath,
