The thinking time I had set aside for myself proved fruitless. It had only gotten me more worked up.
Why had mother died?
How had she died?
Why was she cooking?
Maybe she was ...
I couldn’t even bring myself to think of the last word, but it kept on echoing inside my head. Murdered, murdered, murdered. I started thinking that it might have been a real possibility, then hit myself. Who would have wanted to kill my mother? And why?
I answered my second question easily, though: She was cooking because it was time for our tea, obviously.
That left two more questions. I didn’t bother thinking about the last one; it was that silly.
I decided to write them down.
*Why had mother died?
*How had she died?
and... I bit my lip and wrote down the final question.
*Was she murdered?
“Emma,” there was a knocking at the door. Oh no, another visitor.
I quickly hid my work underneath my bed, and went to open the door.
“Oh, hi, Pete. What are you doing here?” I asked, surprised.
“Well, I was seeing if you were coping alright. After what happened yesterday...” Peter trailed off.
“You know what, we should have a proper funeral for Mother. We will invite the whole town to the funeral, and let Mother have a proper passing.”
“Where is she now?” Peter asked.
“Oh,” I turned a shade redder (I could feel my face burning), “I think she’s outside.”
At that time Alexander burst in. “I know where she is! She’s in the undertaker’s house.”
“Oh thank goodness,” I burst out. “I was getting nervous there, having lost my own mother.”