Mr. Suarez's Shadow

                                                 Friday, 2AM

Dear Diary,

Well, it’s Friday. It’s 2AM. It’s a hot summer night. You can hear the hum of air conditioners and box fans coming out of every apartment along my street. Every now and then, a squad car passes by. The lights and sirens are distracting but that is not why I have so much trouble sleeping. It’s not the nagging drip from the kitchen sink Mr. Foster claims he fixed last week. It’s not the raccoons shuffling through the garbage from the nearby restaurant. It is the shadow that I cannot place. It is the shadow that I told the police about when Mr. Suarez was found dead in his apartment across from mine a couple of days ago. I wanted to tell you when it happened but the police laughed in my face. They said it could have been an alley cat or a piece of furniture. I told the police about the fight I heard a few hours before Mr. Suarez died. The police asked me how I could know so much about what was happening at Mr. Suarez’s apartment. I told them I kept my living room window open. I told the police that it was just because my window was open but that was not the only reason.

                                                                                              Sunday, 1AM

Dear Diary,

The police came around earlier today. They wanted to know if anyone had any more information or saw anything suspicious in the last few days. Everyone said they hadn’t. Everyone lied. No one wanted the police sniffing through our homes any more than necessary. What the police didn’t know was that most of my neighbors wanted Mr. Suarez out of the way. He had been a gangster in his youth and “found God” in his later years. He spent a lot of his time telling kids to stay in school and helping old ladies carry their groceries. He was no saint. I saw right through him. He might have set a few groceries on an older lady’s kitchen counter, but he often snatched her coin purse or bracelet or rings when she wasn’t looking. He gave up on trying to use their debit or credit cards. He was an old-fashioned crook, but a crook none the less. He was a charmer. He read a lot of Shakespeare and used quotes from Shakespeare’s plays to lure women into his clutches. I know. I know because that was how he lured my mother. Although she never confirmed or denied that he was my father, I knew Mr. Suarez and I shared a bond. Do you think he knew he was my father?

My mother never really talked about my father growing up. She only said he stole her heart. She died in the apartment just below mine alone baking cookies. The police said it was a heart attack. I never believed them. She wasn’t more than forty when she died. I suspect foul play but no one believes me. No one knew Mr. Suarez was acquainted with my mother or her family. No one knew that my mother visited Mr. Suarez at his legitimate workplace-the dry cleaners on 5^th street every chance she could. Mr. Suarez never made my mother any promises. He never bought her flowers or a diamond ring. Almost as soon as their affair started, it ended abruptly. There were rumors that Mr. Suarez’s wife returned to the neighborhood. Others said that my mother ended it. Others said she wanted a diamond ring. Others said the gang stepped in. No one knows for certain and my mother met someone else several months before I was born. He didn’t stay long after he found out my mother was pregnant. He left a few hundred dollar bills on the nightstand and took off.  He wasn’t that hard to find. I paid him a visit a few years ago. He was teaching history at the university. I knew I could not be his child. He was boring, rigid and cold. He told me he didn’t remember my mother. The police said they found a photograph of my mother in his sock drawer a couple of days after I met with him. He was found floating in the Hudson River. I knew I could not be the child of a boring history professor. I knew how to cover my tracks.

                                                                                          Tuesday, 2AM

Dear Diary,

I tried sleeping. I’ve had so much trouble sleeping since I saw the shadow, since Mr. Suarez died. He might have found God, got some kind of religion, but I wasn’t that disciplined. I tried to confess to a priest once. I tried to justify my actions. I only wanted to avenge my mother’s murder. I wanted someone to pay for what they did to her and to me.  The only problem was I didn’t know who murdered her or why. She was sweet and frail. She worked hard and was able to send me to nursing school. It was there that I learned about so many drugs and poisons.

The shadow haunts me. I look for it every night the moon is out. It is raining now and I won’t be able to see another shadow. I suppose I should cry, but I cannot muster a tear. Revenge is mine and I am about to get away with it. The police will close their investigation. Mr. Suarez’s name will be placed on a box and put in a warehouse of countless New York City cold cases.

                                                                                      Friday, 12:03AM

Dear Diary,

The police called a little while ago. Someone told them that Mr. Suarez was my father. Someone told them that my mother had been murdered and I have motive. They want me to come to the police station in the morning with my birth certificate. I denied that Mr. Suarez was my father. The history professor’s name-Mr. Harold Jenkins-is on my birth certificate. There is nothing that connects me to Mr. Suarez, not legally anyway. The only problem is that Mr. Jenkins and Mr. Suarez are dead. I could leave. I could run away, but I will never know who killed my mother. The police may be more useful in this investigation. The shadow still haunts me. Perhaps it’s my conscience. Perhaps it’s some heavenly messenger trying to tell me something. I don’t speak or understand its language. I don’t know what is right. I only knew my mother’s love. I know Mr. Suarez made peace and became a prodigal son. That is a road less travelled.