She tore the house apart, knowing it was futile. She had bought the small safe especially for the gun, and spent a frustrating hour figuring out how to set the combination. She knew it had been stored there, because when she finally wrestled the thing open she had a small ceremony of placing the gun in it, and closing it with a flair. She had then put the clip in the top drawer of her nightstand, and went off to have a cup of coffee and a chocolate chip cookie in celebration.
"Where is it? Where could it have gone?" she muttered, opening and closing drawers she'd gone through three times each. She glared at the gun safe, now easily open and most definitely empty. The clip was gone from her nightstand as well. Panic welled up again, threatening to choke her.
"Breathe, girl, just breathe. Okay. Think. Where the heck could it be?"
And one hour after that, two cops knock on her door.
"Ma'am? Ms. Jane Digger?"
They didn't even wait for her to answer before they stepped into her house and flanked her. Their gazes swept the room, then focused on her.
"Where were you the two nights ago? At seven o'clock, when your husband was shot?"
The older officer put a hand up towards the younger, then turned to her. "You have the right to remain silent, the ..."
She ignored the rest, swallowing and praying. She thought only of her son and the shame. A headache pressured her eyes until they filled with tears.
She blinked them back and looked up the older officer, but didn't say anything. Not even an hour later, when they were settled in interview.
"Ma'am, would you like an attorney present?" the older asked.
She looked towards the younger officer, her heart breaking. He met her eyes and finally spoke, "Ma'am ... mom ... I've sent for an attorney for you." His voice was rich with concern, but his eyes were cold and flat.
She only nodded. For her son, she would do anything, accept any punishment. And for the monster she'd created, she deserved it.
Sal stared into the empty box. Her heart skittered about in her breast. She'd put it right there, in the black Ferragamo box between the Prada and the Manolos. She'd even sacrificed one of her sweet little Manolo shoe bags to wrap it in.
The bag wasn't there either.
Fuck.
"Just a mistake," she whispered, opening the Manolo box, then the Prada, then the Givenchy. Box after box after box after box of designer shoes, prettily embellished with bows and ribbons and buckles and baubles, heels of all heights and widths, high shoes, low shoes, pretty pointy toe shoes...
Until her nails dug into the closet and found nothing. No more boxes, no more chances.
Sal sat back on her heels, surrounded by five figures' worth of footwear, straining her eyes around her, desperate to see it, positive she missed it.
But there was no Colt among the Ferragamos or Manolos or Pradas.
4 Comments:
She tore the house apart, knowing it was futile. She had bought the small safe especially for the gun, and spent a frustrating hour figuring out how to set the combination. She knew it had been stored there, because when she finally wrestled the thing open she had a small ceremony of placing the gun in it, and closing it with a flair. She had then put the clip in the top drawer of her nightstand, and went off to have a cup of coffee and a chocolate chip cookie in celebration.
"Where is it? Where could it have gone?" she muttered, opening and closing drawers she'd gone through three times each. She glared at the gun safe, now easily open and most definitely empty. The clip was gone from her nightstand as well. Panic welled up again, threatening to choke her.
"Breathe, girl, just breathe. Okay. Think. Where the heck could it be?"
"You mean this?" said a voice from behind her.
And one hour after that, two cops knock on her door.
"Ma'am? Ms. Jane Digger?"
They didn't even wait for her to answer before they stepped into her house and flanked her. Their gazes swept the room, then focused on her.
"Where were you the two nights ago? At seven o'clock, when your husband was shot?"
The older officer put a hand up towards the younger, then turned to her. "You have the right to remain silent, the ..."
She ignored the rest, swallowing and praying. She thought only of her son and the shame. A headache pressured her eyes until they filled with tears.
She blinked them back and looked up the older officer, but didn't say anything. Not even an hour later, when they were settled in interview.
"Ma'am, would you like an attorney present?" the older asked.
She looked towards the younger officer, her heart breaking. He met her eyes and finally spoke, "Ma'am ... mom ... I've sent for an attorney for you." His voice was rich with concern, but his eyes were cold and flat.
She only nodded. For her son, she would do anything, accept any punishment. And for the monster she'd created, she deserved it.
great job! You guys rock! Now for my attempt:
Sal stared into the empty box. Her heart skittered about in her breast. She'd put it right there, in the black Ferragamo box between the Prada and the Manolos. She'd even sacrificed one of her sweet little Manolo shoe bags to wrap it in.
The bag wasn't there either.
Fuck.
"Just a mistake," she whispered, opening the Manolo box, then the Prada, then the Givenchy. Box after box after box after box of designer shoes, prettily embellished with bows and ribbons and buckles and baubles, heels of all heights and widths, high shoes, low shoes, pretty pointy toe shoes...
Until her nails dug into the closet and found nothing. No more boxes, no more chances.
Sal sat back on her heels, surrounded by five figures' worth of footwear, straining her eyes around her, desperate to see it, positive she missed it.
But there was no Colt among the Ferragamos or Manolos or Pradas.
The gun was gone.
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