I spent days trying to find a lead in the case of Dr. MacLain's murder, anything that might suggest that someone other than my father was guilty. However, I found nothing. The strange thing was, every time I tried to find out more about MacLain himself, I was unable to. I was like someone had deliberately hidden all the details on exactly what MacLain did.

So, a few days after my conversation with Detective O'Neil, I went to sleep in the cheap, shabby hotel room my family had been staying in ever since the IRS confiscated the house a few days ago.

"Good night," I told my mom and my brothers as I settled into a nice, comfy spot on the floor, right between one of the room's two beds and the wall. Ah, the good life. Max, the younger of my older brothers, shared a bed with Mom. I could have shared the other one with my oldest brother Barney, but I'd probably accidentally kill him while dreaming I was a master of kung fu, so I slept on the floor.

Hawkeye*Hawkeye*Hawkeye

I woke up the next morning, thinking about how nice and spacious a tiny shack would be. We'd been looking at one in hopes of renting it, but the details weren't worked out yet.

It was then that I realized I was not in the hotel room.

Where am I? What happened?

I felt something in my hand. Looked at it. A knife, covered in blood.

And then I saw him.

Barney.

Lying on the ground next to me, a huge blood stain in his shirt.

I shouted his name. Felt for a pulse.

There was none.

I screamed.

Just then, a sheriff's patrol car pulled up, its lights flashing and sirens wailing. Three more arrived behind it.

I looked around and realized I was in the alley behind the hotel. "Help!" I shouted to Detective O'Neil as he stepped out of the lead patrol car. "Someone killed him!"

O'Neil and several officers drew their sidearms and aimed them directly at my chest. "Drop the knife, Clint!" he yelled.

Realizing I was still holding what was in all likelihood Barney's murder weapon, I let go of the knife and let it drop to the concrete.

Sheriff's deputies swarmed me, making me kneel and handcuffing me. "What's going on?" I asked, scared. "I didn't do it!"

I felt like I had been slapped in the face just when I was recovering from a punch to the gut. First my father was wrongfully convicted of murder, and then, only a minute earlier, I found out my brother was dead. And now they were saying I killed him!

"Clint Barton, you are under arrest for the murder of Barney Barton," said O'Neil. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be taken down and used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney present. If you don't have an attorney, the court can appoint one for you, if you so wish. Do you understand and acknowledge these rights?"

I nodded, unable to form any more words. My whole world had just come crashing down, and the sheriff's office thought I was to blame for it.