Page 28 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

“We don’t live behind the barricades,” I shouted. I pointed at my house less than fifty feet away. “I live at 811. She lives across the street—822.”

Officer Pemberton, who had been treating us like we were just a couple of nuisances who had interrupted her gabfest with the other cops, turned and pointed at Misty. “You—822,” she said. “What’s your name?”

Misty said her name, but the vodka had taken its toll, and it came out Mishty Shinclair.

“Misty Sinclair?” the cop said, articulating every syllable.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Pemberton turned to me. “And you?”

“Maggie McCormick. I live right over?—”

Pemberton cut me off. “Stay right here—both of you,” she said, pulling out her radio. “Lieutenant, I’ve got the girl from eight-two-two.”

“Hold her,” the voice crackled back.

“Officer Pemberton,” I said, an angry drunk trying to sound sober and respectful. “Can you please tell us what’s going on? Is anybody hurt? I want to go home.”

“You will,” she said. “Just wait.”

Misty grabbed my hand. “Maggie, did you hear what she said? What did she mean about ‘the girl from eight-two-two’? Why is she talking about my house and not yours?”

“I don’t know,” I said, squeezing her hand tighter.

“Detectives, she’s over here,” Pemberton called, pointing at Misty.

A man and a woman, both wearing a badge on a chain around their necks, walked up to us. “Misty Sinclair?” the woman said.

Misty nodded. “What’s going on?” she said.

“I’m Detective Singleton, and this is Detective Kirk. We need to talk to you.” She looked at me. “Alone.”

“She’s my friend,” Misty said. “Can’t she come?”

“She’s going to wait right here for you with the officer. We won’t be long.” The detective put her arm on Misty’s shoulder and walked her behind the knot of uniformed cops on the sidewalk.

I was exhausted. “Can I at least sit down?” I asked my new babysitter. I didn’t wait for an answer. I dropped down on the curb, put my chin in my hands, and stared at the people on the other side of the barricade—men in shorts and T-shirts, women in robes, one holding a baby in her arms.

And then I saw him. His back was to me, but the bright green 2XL McCormick’s T-shirt was all I needed.

I jumped up and screamed, “Daaaaaaad!”

He was standing with two cops, and he had his arm around my sister. He wheeled around, looking left, looking right. I screamed again.

“Maggie,” he bellowed, spotting me. He came running. Lizzie was right behind him.

I bolted for the barricade, but Pemberton grabbed my arm.

“That’s my daughter,” he yelled. “Let her go.”

Officer Pemberton wasn’t taking orders from civilians. She tightened her grip.

The cops who had been with my father caught up with him. One of them was Dad’s old classmate, Kip Montgomery. He held up both hands. “It’s okay, Monica. I know her. I’ll take her from here.”

“The detectives want to talk to her.” Pemberton shot back.

“Tell them she’s with me.”

---