by James Steele
a gloved hand and gently pulled the small scrap of paper away from the black and white photograph. It was folded at a jagged angle and the name MS. MENDEZ was written on the front. Detective Aster opened it carefully, reading the handwritten lines on the inside. His look suddenly changed from calm and casual to stern and alarmed.
“This is yours Ms. Mendez,” he informed her quietly. The detective walked over and sat on the couch beside her, in the same place Milo had sat hours before. Veronica took the note in her hands and opened it. No words could express the fear that quickly crossed over her.
“It seems you were here for a reason.”
“What? No, it’s not like that I swear,” Veronica pleaded frantically.
“It’s surprising how ignorant you mistake me for Ms. Mendez. I’m not as transparent as you think.”
Veronica couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“I don’t concern myself with motives Ms. Mendez. They couldn’t be any clearer. All I want to know is one thing, did you?”
“Did I what?” Veronica asked abruptly, trying desperately to hold back tears.
Detective Aster got up and walked towards the picture window that overlooked the bay, admiring its scenic view. He watched as the headlights from drifting cars began to exit Downey Cove, the last of the tourists closing out their weekends.
“Did you?” Detective Aster began. “Did you enjoy killing him?”
Veronica’s body suddenly went numb as she realized what the sly old man had done. The note in her hand floated to the floor, resting at the base of the couch, its words staring back at her.
MS. MENDEZ
I APOLOGIZE FOR THE MISUNDERSTANDING; IT HURTS ME TO HAVE TO LET YOU GO. FOR SOME, WINNING CAN’T BE EVERYTHING. FOR ME HOWEVER, THAT’S ALL THERE EVER WILL BE.
WELL PLAYED, MILO
While standing and watching amiably at the world progress through the picture window, Milo Sampson intricately detailed the victory that would become his own demise and serendipitously, Veronica Mendez’s as well.
Check mate couldn’t have been easier.