Detective Knox stood inside the doorway, leaning against the wall, imagining himself to be the cool outsider in a teenage movie. He was no rebel, but he could feel that sense of supreme confidence, and his posture could not contain his contentment. He knew he should be more careful, that his success was only made possible because of the darkest day of some people's lives, and that his own self-satisfaction was an affront to them, but he was unable to exert enough control over himself to refrain from being the callous person he so often projected himself as.

One by one, the surviving members of the Hobbes family entered, walking past Detective Knox without giving him more than a sideways glance. He could not tell if they saw his interior feelings, and were subtly disapproving of him, or if they were merely being antisocial creatures who wanted no part of reopening their wounds in front of him. Catching killers was more important than massaging feelings, so if some were to be bruised as a means of meting our justice, it was a trade-off Knox felt was more than worthwhile.

He was helped by his contempt for the three Hobbes relatives. All of them had revealed themselves to be people who did not deserve to be treated with the velvet gloves detectives were supposed to wear when handling the grieving. That they did not grieve at all did not strike Knox as strange, for he would do the same in all but the rarest of cases, but that they could not go through the motions of putting on an act when confronted with the possibility of their own responsibility in the murder was beyond his comprehension. Basic self-preservation should have kicked in, should have made them take any steps imaginable to pass the blame — to project it upon someone else. They did not do that, and all of them seemed perfectly willing to take on the mantle of killer.

Detective Knox saw this in them, and considered any damaged psyches that would come as a result of his actions to be collateral damage, possibly a beneficial shattering that would necessitate them being put back together by a professional.

Detective Knox would not intentionally cause them harm, even if he knew doing so would require them to get the help he saw they needed. He did not consider himself always a good man, but he was not an evil one, and deliberately bringing pain upon others was just that. Pain was unavoidable, but so long as it was accidental, he could not be blamed for being its cause. While he considered letting each of the family members tie their own noose, knowing none would grieve their loss, he would not have been able to live with himself if he had. His conscience, no matter how often he thought it was a vestigial organ that prevented him from being his best self, remained stubbornly tethered to his mind.

With the family gathered, Detective Knox kicked his heel back against the wall, scuffing the paint as though signing a masterpiece, pushing himself forward into the room. He entered slowly, surveying the frozen faces of the occupants, relishing the moment of drama as he pulled the hat from his head.

“I'm glad you could all join us here.”

Faith Hobbes was visibly impatient, her fingers tapping against her thigh. Detective Knox, in a different state of mind, would have stared and counted the beats, to see if she was unconsciously sending a coded message.

“Would you please tell us why you brought us all here?”

“You are gathered here because we know how George Hobbes was murdered.”

This revelation did not elicit the reaction Detective Knox hoped for. Those gathered did not appear shocked, or relieved. They gave no indication of any feelings at all, which fed into Knox's assessment of them. He judged people based on how he felt he would react in situations, despite knowing he was not what people would describe as normal. There were times when that fact was useful, such as when people displayed even less of a response than he would have. That level of abnormality was terrifying, and a sign of something more going on underneath the surface.

“Does it matter how he was killed? I thought the point was to find out who did it,” Tory Hobbes said.

“And does it even matter if we find that out? It's not like it's going to bring him back,” her brother added.

“Yes, it matters. Since one of you three killed him, I would think the other two would want to make sure we lock the killer up, if only to make sure you aren't next.”

Normally, Detective Knox would not have been so blunt, but he considered the circumstances special. Watching the three tear into one another with distrustful looks and snide comments was by no means necessary, but he thought if they were not interested in the solving of the murder, he should at least be able to entertain himself along the way.

“What do you mean, one of us killed George?” Faith asked.

“It's a fairly plain-spoken sentence. One of you is the murderer. I figured you assumed that right from the start. It was like each of you said, you couldn't imagine why anyone else would want to kill him. Therefore, it had to be one of you.”

“But that doesn't make any sense,” Tory said.

“Of course it does. You can protest all you want now about how much you miss him, and how heartbroken you are, but I saw you in the first moments after it happened. None of you showed the slightest bit of grief for your loss. That told me right there all I needed to know about whether any of you were capable of murder.”

“You really think all of us are potential murderers?” Emerson asked.

“I do, but only one of you could have actually done it.”

“Excuse me, but if I recall, you already interviewed us, and we all have alibis,” Faith said.

“Yes you do, but unfortunately for you, they aren't alibis for the murder anymore.”

“Wait. What?” Tory asked.

“I was hoping someone would ask that. As it turns out, our investigation has led us to a new realization. George Hobbes was not killed in this house.”

“Of course he was. You stood over his body,” Emerson said.

“I did, that is true. But he was killed somewhere else.”

“And just how do you suppose someone moved his body into the house, into that room, and locked it from the inside?” Faith asked.

“They didn't.”

“I'm confused,” Tory said.

“That's why I gathered you all here, to explain what happened.”

“I already know what happened. My no good drunk of a son killed my poor, beloved husband, because he's a greedy little sociopath,” Faith said.

“The hell I am. You probably killed him by stopping his heart, because you're so cold,” Emerson responded.

“Stop it, both of you. How can you think that any of us would have killed him? We're family,” Tory said.

“Exactly. No one hates quite like family. And since you said that, it was probably you,” Faith said.

Detective Knox took a step back, listening to the bickering with a hint of a smile on his face. A good show was hard to come by, and he was witnessing one here. The Hobbes family was boiling over, with Knox wondering how many years of therapy it would have taken to dredge up as much dysfunction as he had uncovered. He came to the conclusion that no amount of therapy could fix people who were fundamentally broken, because talking is not a solution. Talk can caress feelings, but it cannot rewire our brains, it cannot change who we are.

Transformations of the necessary kind, the ones that allow us to learn from our mistakes and never repeat them, require a hunger and desire for change. Speaking the words is not enough, it must be a belief that reaches the deepest recesses of our core, where it can be burned as a fuel to seep into every cell of our bodies. Detective Knox listened to the accusations flying back and forth, and what he heard were not genuine expressions of outrage and denial, but merely the facade being stripped off their communication. For the first time, they were saying what they truly thought of one another.