Clara suddenly laughs. “Yes, Demyen. I’m going to go in front of a judge and court officials and police officers and tell them that I, as an eight year-old little girl, took what I knew from a kids’ book on plants and grew, cultivated, harvested, extracted from, and utilized what I knew to be an organic poison that would specifically mimic a heart attack in coffee I taught myself to brew—all so I could poison the only adult in my life who gave two f***s about me.”
I narrow my eyes at her. I’m not appreciating the sarcasm.
“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” She rests her head against the wall and glowers at me. “You don’t care what’s true or realistic. You just want me to take the fall for Uncle Mike’s murder.”
I kick the door close behind me and flick the light switch on. Then I fold my
