I turn off the news, hands shaking.
Park two doors down, then shoulder through a chaos of cordons and police and media imps to reach home.
Place is in shambles, ransacked by people wearing disposable shoe covers.
Master closet door’s ajar—Swallow fire—the lockbox cracked open—Breathe ash—empty.
Tim Boiteau writes and lives near Detroit with his wife and son.
A young policeman stood on the doorstep, shifting his feet.
“It’s about your son. Please call this number.”
She pleaded for an explanation, but instead he thrust the paper into her hand.
Trembling, my parents dialed the number. The line rang.
An eternity of rings.
Finally, a voice answered. “Homicide.”
Margie Nairn is a retired nurse and emerging writer in Corvallis, Oregon, where she writes memoir, poetry, and silly limericks for her daughter.
It wasn’t so much the ghastly smile that turned my stomach as the whiskey vapors souring the air in the filthy bedroom.
His eyes were locked in a vacant stare.
What did he see?
“Can we move the body, Detective?”
Eyes riveted to his, I stepped aside as death triumphed.
Cyndi Pauwels writes suspense novels, short stories and essays. Now if only she could sell something…