wanted you to find my son?” she asked, turning to go back in the house.
“Min-jun refused, didn’t she, when you met her after work that night. From my reports, you knew where to wait. You asked her to come home, so your husband could be properly buried.”
Mrs. Kim’s mouth worked. “I knew they fought, but they were so close before…before the trouble. I never thought Min-jun would refuse to bury his father. It is wrong to hate your father so much. I did not raise him that way.”
“Your husband was ex-Special Forces. I’m sure he had several weapons around the house. Did you take one to protect yourself, so late at night? And when Min-jun refused and was going to leave, did you pull the gun on her? Tell her that she needed to listen? Needed to come home and do her duty?”
“Stop saying she. I had a son! That’s what Min-jun said. Said he could not stand as sangju, even if he wanted to, because he was no longer a man. My husband and I have no brothers, no other male relatives. It was Min-jun’s duty to bury us properly.” Mrs. Kim’s voice was sharp and painful, the authoritarian tone far too reminiscent of my own mother’s.
“Is that why you beat him after you shot him? To correct his behavior?” I could feel the old anger and resentment flaring up. Even after all these years, I still wasn’t sure whether I’d been raised strictly or abused. I’d never been hit without knowing exactly why I was being punished. Even so, I’d been hit well past the American definition of abuse.
“No! If I must bury my son, I did not wish him to be seen as…with breasts and puffed lips. I did not mean to shoot him. It was an accident.”
Guns go bang, I thought. “You must tell the police the truth. They already know Jun-seo couldn’t have done it. He was in an ambulance when Min-jun died.”
Mrs. Kim wrinkled her face into an expression of disgust. “Shameful boy! He should have told me that before I gave him the money.”
“He wanted to bury his father. He had no money to do so. He came to ask you for a loan, based on his childhood friendship with Min-jun. Instead, you gave him a job.”
She was shaking her head. “Disgraceful. He should have told me. Perhaps he was not a good boy after all.”
“Mrs. Kim…” I started, and then stopped. Because I was staring now at the little pistol she’d pulled out of the pocket of her housecoat.
“You are a bad girl. This is a house of mourning.” She squinted as the barrel waved slightly in the air.
“The police will be here soon.” I took a couple steps back. Rule of thumb: if there’s a pistol pointing at you, run. They’re inaccurate past fifteen feet in amateur hands. Problem was, I was only five feet away.
“They’re already here.” I heard a deep bass voice rumble behind me, around the cigarette I knew was in his mouth.
“Put the gun down, Mrs. Kim.”
Mrs. Kim lowered her arm when she saw Detective Shouft, standing out of the line of fire pointing his gun straight at her head. Obedient to male authority, I couldn’t help thinking, though with relief instead of my usual irritation.
An hour later, after Mrs. Kim had been read her rights and arrested, and the neighborhood was no longer lit by lights and sirens, Shouft came over to where I was leaning against the fence. He lit another cigarette from the end of the last one.
“Parks.”
“Shouft.”
“Feeling suicidal?”
“Not really.”
“I would have called you, told you she paid for Johnny’s father’s funeral.”
“No, you wouldn’t. Active investigation.”
He didn’t answer, blowing out a thin stream of smoke.
“Shitty detective work, Parks. You guessed.”
“Beat you here by ten minutes.” He made the growly noise that reminded me of a disgruntled bear. We stood in silence for another few minutes before he spoke again.
“Dinner?” His tone of voice was far too casual. I could feel my pulse quickening with the prospect of a familiar bad decision, the kind you don’t start regretting until you can’t get your underwear down from the ceiling fan.
“Only if you’re paying.”
“Breakfast?”
“Only if you’re cooking.”
THE GAME, by Marjorie Ann Mitchell
Sam Breske stared in confusion across his boss’s large mahogany desk, hoping that today would be the day the old man finally grew a sense of humor, and what he’d just heard was a failed attempt at a joke.
Martin Harrison, owner of Harrison SimTech and creator of VIC—Virtual Image Clone—looked back at him dispassionately, not a twinge of amusement on his face. “In order to do what’s necessary to stay on top, there’s bound to be collateral damage,” he said, leaning back in his black leather executive chair and tenting his fingers. Behind him, a window displayed the view from the top floor of the six-story building—swaying pine and sweet gum trees, a cloudless blue sky. Their office buildings in Research Triangle Park in North Carolina were understated, especially given RTP’s boost in prestige since SimTech claimed it as its headquarters. It was here that Martin ruled—a Caesar guarding his empire.
“That collateral damage you’re talking about is my team. The same people who helped you build this company.” Sam rose from his seat, incredulous.
Martin sighed. “There’s no room for sentiment in business, Sam. It’s not financially feasible to continue your project.”
“Just like that? VIC is the highest grossing gaming system in history. How’s it possible that enhancements wouldn’t make money?”
Martin leaned forward, pointing at Sam accusingly. “You know as well as I, we’re fighting to stay ahead of the competition. Tough decisions have to be made.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Sam said, his arm slicing the air in dismissal. “You’re asking me to fire the best assets this company has. How do you expect SimTech to grow without software engineers?”
“That’s the other thing I wanted to speak to you about. You’ve been an integral part of the company, Sam, creating the HMC when the gaming commission threatened to shut us down over some unfortunate incidents.”
Even though everything Martin was saying was true, Sam could tell he was being disingenuous. “By unfortunate incidents, of course, you mean the deaths caused by VIC’s realism. You know damn well I didn’t create the HMC all by myself.”
After two gamers had died, Sam had managed the project team that created a Health Monitoring Component (HMC) that could detect a gamer experiencing an unusually high amount of distress. When the HMC triggered, it shut down the video game and sent a signal to emergency services in the gamer’s area. The HMC had saved the company, their careers, and several lives.
Irritated, Martin continued, “Yes, yes,
