Holy Crimes

Growing up, my bedroom would be invaded by phantoms, battalions of my father’s doppelgangers that besieged the whole room and stood guard over me like a besieged city and platoons of my mother’s ghosts; I guess her soul had never rested in peace.

“All evidence is pinned to you. It is your bulimic belly that is securely carrying a truckload of the drugs, your designer clothes that were concealing your junk, Miss Mule,” Inspector Lina said. “Not your dad’s, junkie. And if the grapevine is anything to go by, your father is retiring tomorrow. If I were you, I’d try to persuade Dad to chunk off part of his send-off package to get me the best criminal lawyers around. The judges might decide to get you a few years or a hefty fine, or both, which of course, Dad will pay, or you will rot in jail, and no one will appeal.”