[ TT ] A detective whose child has been killed mysteriously , and despite being told not to , investigates her death enough to suspect their spouse .

At 5am the traffic started up again and the noise bled into my office and drowned out the noise of snoring from my damn parrot, Geordie. I fucking hated that bird; more when he was awake, but a whole hell of a lot when he was asleep too. 
 
 My desk was full, photos and receipts jostling with bottles and dirty coffee cups for space and both of them losing to the large, overflowing ashtray, which I pulled towards me to stub out another butt; it did n't matter any more if there was ash everywhere. It had been a long time since I'd slept and felt like weeks since I'd emptied the ashtray; I was no longer sure which was a metaphor for the other. 
 
 The facts did n't lie. I'd been a cop once, not a very good one, but good enough to remember that if you followed the evidence back to the beginning, then you found the truth. Problems often started when you did n't want to believe the truth. Now I was a dick, both in job and nature and a pretty mediocre one at that. I worked the cases that the better PI agencies gave up, the ones that were n't worth the time or money, but it was my life and while it was kind of pathetic, I settled into a nice rut and had been hoping to ride it through until cancer or a cheating husband got me. 
 
 Geordie stirred, woken by a heavy truck that thundered past outside and shook the building. He cocked his head to the side and looked at me with his judgemental stare. `` Morning fucker!'' he chirruped. I hated that bird. 
 
 I checked my watch again. 5:15am, I had nearly two hours until I wanted to be home, to catch her as she left for the day. My wife, the teacher, perfect in every regard, except this one. She'd recovered so quickly after Emily's death, while I'd gone to bits; she'd been my rock and had given me all the support a husband could want. Just three days ago I'd have ripped anyone who doubted her to shreds. Three days can change a lot. 
 
 I've always kept an office far from home, when you're a PI, you get the occasional unhappy visitor and you do n't want them knowing where you live; it's better to have a nice drive home, so you can spot a tail. When my wife and Emily had bought me Geordie it was because they thought I needed company, if it was n't for Emily I would have strangled and eaten him, but she loved him, loved visiting him, so I put up with him. 
 
 The little green bastard hopped around his cage excitedly and with a sigh I heaved myself off my seat to fill his seed bowl. A slew of pictures fell as I stood and splashed across the floor. Emily, naked, dead, cut into pieces, the red almost filling the frame on every picture. 
 
 Three days ago the package had arrived and inside were the details of the hitman my wife had hired, photos of them meeting, receipts, evidence, everything that would be needed to convict him and the bitch, enough to put them away for life. I had no idea why she'd done it, or who had sent me the pack, but I did n't care. It took me less than a day to confirm it all. My wife had paid for our daughter to die. 
 
 He'd died less than twelve hours ago, easily found in a sleazy motel - I'd kicked in the door and done it with my hands. It had felt good to feel the life slip from him as I pressed down on his neck, his hands scrabbling at my back, until his eyes went dim. I did n't trust myself to do that with my wife, my betrayer. I did n't want to give her the chance to somehow try to talk her way out of it. The gun in my pocket was new and registered to me, I wanted this to be easy to figure out for the poor cop who got my case. 
 
 Outside the morning air bit into me, I lit a cigarette and then reached into my coat and pulled Geordie free from my inside pocket. He looked around, puzzled to suddenly be outside, after a life of confinement. I had a sudden wave of worry that he'd be okay, but it was better like this. I opened my hands and he stayed for a moment and then flew up to a nearby tree and watched me, confused. He was free now, my last link to Emily was gone. 
 
 The drive home was hard, I did n't feel drunk but I'd been drinking steadily and I could n't risk getting pulled over, not now. It took longer than normal to get back, but her car was still in the drive, I was in time. I parked across the street and lit another cigarette, my last. I smoked it until I reached the filter and my fingers burned and then I stepped from the car and slowly crossed the street, enjoying the early sun. 
 
 I carried the gun by my side, ready. She was in the kitchen and called out to me as I came in, but I ignored it. Two more dead bodies, lying in suburbia, a murder suicide they'd call it. When they found my office, found the evidence, then they'd know why I did it. 
 
 I wondered if Geordie would be okay. I hated that bird, but I hoped he'd be okay.
