The Broken Ones by Sarah A. Denzil Page B

that can’t rest in one spot. He sits quietly as Hollis leads the investigation. His only reaction is to the recording, when his eyebrows lift up his forehead.
    “Did you hear it?” I ask eagerly. “The voice?”
    “Ms. Howland, may I ask why you decided to put a recording device in your mother’s bedroom?” PC Hollis asks. The masculine energy of the two officers seems out of place sat on my mother’s floral sofa sipping from chintzy teacups.
    “Mum has Alzheimer’s disease,” I explain. “She gets disorientated and confused at night. Her sleep has been very disrupted, and she keeps complaining about a shadow following her. Which I know sounds a bit crazy.” I let out a nervous laugh and feel my skin heat with embarrassment. “I was worried that she was frightening herself at night somehow. I didn’t expect this. I didn’t expect to actually hear an intruder.”
    Chowdhury makes notes. Hollis asks, “And what about you, Ms. Howland? Did you hear anyone come into the house last night?”
    “No,” I reply. “I didn’t. But a few nights ago, Mum woke me up and said there was someone in her room. We checked the whole house, but we didn’t find anything.”
    “And you didn’t hear anything that night, either?” Hollis asks.
    “No,” I reply as a prickling sensation works its way up my arms. It wasn’t until the police started asking questions that I realised how odd all this is. “But Mum lost her keys. The intruder could have made a set. I guess I might not hear someone sneak into the house if they can unlock the door.”
    “Maybe I should take a look around,” Chowdhury suggests. “Do you have a cellar or an attic?”
    “Yes, both,” I say. My blood runs cold. “You don’t think… you don’t think they’re still here, do you?”
    “Don’t worry,” Chowdhury says with a reassuring smile. “If there’s anyone here, we’ll find them.”
    “Perhaps I could have a chat with your mother while PC Chowdhury searches the house?” Hollis suggests.
    “Yes, I’ll go and get her.”
    I direct Chowdhury towards the cellar, making sure the light is on so he doesn’t slip down the steep stone steps. As with most old Victorian houses, the cellar is cold and uninviting, where the meat would have been stored to keep it fresh. There’s even an old stone butcher’s block down there. Not that I go into the cellar very often. I have to build up the courage to go down there to change a fuse.
    Mum is in the kitchen with Erin, who seems frazzled as she wards off many questions. Who are those men? What are they doing in my house? As I walk into the room, Mum turns around and directs the same questions at me.
    “It’s the police, Mum. They want to talk about the person who broke into the house. Do you remember? You need to tell them all about it.”
    Mum’s face drains of all colour. “But I don’t want to. I don’t want to tell them.” She takes a step forward and whispers, “They mustn’t know. Never.”
    “Mum… What? I…” I glance across at Erin, who is chewing on her lip and tapping nervously on the kitchen surface. She turns away, busying herself with washing mugs. “What are you talking about?”
    But the spell is broken. Mum leans away from me and blinks twice. “Who are those men in my house?”
    For the briefest of moments, I wonder… Is Mum as confused as she seems? When she regards me with those assessing eyes, it’s as though she knows what she’s saying. Then her jaw slackens, and I wonder if I saw anything at all.
    I guide her through to the living room—where PC Hollis is waiting for us—and feel numb from head to toe. Numb, and tired of all this. My mind drifts to my class at school, being taught by Alisha again. I can’t help experiencing a stab of jealousy. Alisha gets to teach my kids. She also has the home life I’ve always wanted. I’m here with the police, a demented mother, and a sick feeling in my stomach.
    Hollis gets to his feet and offers a hand to