The Murder House

by Simon Beaufort

  Michael knew a lot about drugs. They were how his family had earned much of their money. He wiped his hand on a white handkerchief – it wouldn’t do to lick it clean – then sat at the pool bar, waiting for Rina Carlo to wake up. When she did, she took a long, deep swallow, thirsty from the heat. He thought she grimaced at a slight bitterness, but then she waved to a waiter for another.

  Michael watched her for a long time. She laid there neatly, arms to her sides and legs straight, and gradually her breathing slowed until it stopped. He stayed where he was until her second cocktail began to curdle in the heat. Then he stood, flung his jacket over his shoulder, and took a taxi to the airport.