The Perfect Son by Freida McFadden
Chapter 1
Transcript of police interview with Erika Cass:
“Can you please tell us what happened, Mrs. Cass?”
“Am I under arrest?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“I know what you found. I know what you must be thinking.”
“What do you think we found, Mrs. Cass?”
“A… a dead body.”
“And can you explain how this happened?”
“I…”
“Mrs. Cass?”
“Am I under arrest? Please just tell me.”
“At this time, no, you are not under arrest. But obviously, we need to know what happened.”
“He was… stabbed to death.”
“And who did it?”
“…”
“Mrs. Cass?”
“I did it. I killed him, Detective. And I would do it again.”
Chapter 2
About one week earlier
Erika
You’re not supposed to have a favorite child.
If you ask most mothers, they’ll say something along the lines of “Sammy is really smart, but Nicole has a great heart.” They refuse to choose. And some of them are sincere. Some mothers genuinely love both their children equally.
Others, like me, are lying through their teeth.
“Good morning!” I say as my fourteen-year-old daughter Hannah pads into the kitchen. She’s in her bare feet and an old pair of gym shorts, and her reddish brown hair in disarray around her face. She’s supposed to be dressed and ready for school, but clearly she’s not. She always waits until the last possible second to get ready. She likes to keep me in suspense over whether or not she’s going to make the school bus. But I’ve learned from experience that nagging her doesn’t help at all—in fact, it only seems to slow her down—so I turn back to the eggs I’m scrambling in a frying pan.
“Mom!” Hannah can’t seem to say that word anymore without the whiny edge to her voice that draws the word out for at least two syllables. Mo-om. I remember how happy I was the first time she said “mama.” I shake my head at my old na?ve self. “Why do you have to say it like that?”
“Say it like what? I just said ‘Good morning.’”
“Right.” Hannah groans. “Like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like… oh my God, you know what I mean.”
“I really don’t, Hannah.”
“You say it like… I don’t know. Just don’t say it like that.”
I’m not sure how to respond, so I focus my attention back on the eggs. I pride myself in making really fantastic eggs. It’s one of my superpowers. My eggs are so good that when one of Hannah’s friends ate them on the morning after a sleepover, she said that I should be the lunch lady at their school. It was the highest compliment.
Hannah yawns loudly and scratches at the rat’s nest on her head. “What’s for breakfast?”
I ignore the irony: if I asked Hannah what she was making for breakfast while she was very clearly in the middle of cooking eggs, she would have a meltdown. “I’m making eggs.”
“Eggs? I hate eggs.”
“What are you talking about? I thought eggs are your favorite breakfast.”
“Yeah. When I was, like, eight years old.”
I put down the spatula I’ve been using to slowly stir the eggs. That’s the trick to making good eggs. Cook them low and slow. “I made them for you this weekend and you ate them up.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean they’re my favorite. God, Mom.”
I don’t know what to say to that. It seems like lately, every conversation I have with my daughter is an exercise in trying not to say something really mean back to her. I close my eyes and repeat my mantra to myself: I am the adult. This is just a phase.
After fourteen years, it’s harder to convince myself it’s all just a phase.
“What else is for breakfast?” Hannah asks, even though she is two feet away from the refrigerator and three feet away from the pantry.
“Frozen waffles?”
“Yuck.” She sticks out her tongue. “What else?”
“You can make yourself some cold cereal.”
“What kind of cereal do we have?”
I sigh. “I don’t know, Hannah. Go look in the pantry.”
She lets out a grunt as she stands up that would make you think she is ninety years old rather than a high school freshman. She limps over to the pantry and studies the boxes of cereal intently.