by Guy James
“A few inches lower, and…”
“You should have waited for me.”
The detective grunted. “You were too busy lying around on the floor.”
Benton’s face became grimmer. “Our team’s scraping the place, but I’ll bet there’s nothing, just like all the others.”
Detective Labrusca recalled the image from the wall, the momentary alignment of blood in its downward crawl—death’s message.
The detective’s body sagged into the hospital bed. He wouldn’t catch the perp after all.
6:32 P.M.
Logan, Kara, and Eva sat around the dinner table. On the table sat another Logan Jennings special, steaming and ready to be shared. Koki was under the table, beating at Logan’s shin with her tail.
“How was work today?” Kara asked.
Logan smiled at his wife. “Surprisingly good.”
“Oh?”
“I put up a few new photos on my site today. One of them is already doing better than the rest of my portfolio combined this week, and all that while I cooked dinner.”
Eva tore a bread roll apart. “So are we rich now, Daddy?”
He laughed. “No, we’re not rich.”
Logan looked at his wife and daughter. “What about your days? How were they?”
As Kara and Eva told him about the day’s events and Koki thumped her tail approvingly, Logan Jennings felt he was the richest man in the world.
9:58 P.M.
The mask lay in the passenger seat footwell of Logan's car, its horn in tatters, the muse that had there found respite now unreachable.