As a child I read a lot of detective stories and detective comics, and went to every film noir I could. My obsession was fed by my mother promptly buying me the newest volumes and issues as they came out. As I grew it turned into a very curious nature. I asked my mother and father thousands of questions each, and every, day.

Their answers were as general as my questions were specific. I suppose they thought I’d understand they were trying to brush me off with nonchalance. “You’ll understand when you’re grown,” Father liked to say from behind the news paper, between mouthfuls of potatoes and pot roast. That’s all I got after a whole day of Mother saying, “Ask your father.”

I suppose they got tired of my logic hunting because during the summer of my tenth year they sent me to live with my uncle for the summer. Though he owned a farm outside Cabot and worked his fields endlessly while I was there, his answers were fresh and enlightened, renewing my passion for hidden details. They were hoping I’d return home satisfied, that I’d learned enough to fill my appetite; instead I wanted more. I knew more, so I asked harder questions, wanting more detail and specificity.

One other thing worked in my favor that summer, my uncle kept a library with lots of books to get him through the winter. Each night, for as long as I could keep my eyes open, I’d read something, anything I could get my hands on. Usually I feel asleep with a book open on my lap, propped up with a pillow. Thankfully, I was finally old enough to read something with substance.

When I was removed from those books upon returning home, I felt empty. I was unable to find anyone who could answer my questions. My uncle was too far away, so I started searching for my own answers. I created stories as I went along, following people, finding artifacts in the basement and the attic, peaking inside stranger’s bags, and eavesdropping on classmates tales. On the weekends I’d stroll downtown streets looking for criminals and victims.

The following spring, after I was well practiced as a sleuth, Mother began leaving Saturday nights and returning Sunday afternoons. Father would only say she had gone into the city, meaning Pittsburgh. From our little Kittanning, Pittsburgh seemed unfathomably huge to me. What could she possibly be doing there? Why was she staying over night?

On her seventh trip, I tailed her.