Two Beds
The detective set his jaw and walked into the only room of the house that wasn't covered in gore. His stomach churned as he passed the two beds. Their stripped throw blankets clashed with the tacky, white-washed walls. He followed the warm summer breeze out the open the door to the awning.
Mrs. Suthers's wedding ring had been covered in blood older than their marriage. She sat, rocking back and forth on the only dusty, plastic chair not covered in sunlight.
He struck a match and held it to the cigarette hanging from his lips. The taste of nicotine did little to calm his nerves. Smoke piled around them as he leaned against the brick of the house. The warm stone bit into his back but didn’t calm his itch.
"Mrs. Suthers, tell me what happened," the detective said. He pulled out his old leather notebook and flipped through the horror stories. The worn spine cracked until he came to the last page. Its white paper stared up at him.
"A man was there, and then he wasn't. It was as if a phantom had entered the house." She shook her head. Wispy, silver strands of hair fell into her hollow eyes. A ghost would have looked more alive. She twisted her wedding ring. The dried blood on her hands cracked in the hot sun.
"There was someone else in the house? Why would he leave you alive?" the detective asked. "That seems counterproductive."
"What are you saying? I didn't kill my family!" she said. “I said nothing of the sort, Mrs. Suthers.”
“Please… call me Delphine.”
"How did this 'phantom' get inside?"
"I don't know."
"What did he look like?"
"I don't know!" she said.
"I don't remember. It happened too fast."
"Mrs. Suthers… Delphine, I need you to try. I understand this is hard, but I cannot help you without this information."
The detective pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and licked his salty lips. His patience was wearing thin. He needed to take a break, go to the beach, and let the water wash off his years working alongside Death. It was too late for the innocence he desperately fought for.
"Why should I tell you?" she asked. "You are already convinced I did it."
"That remains to be seen. Please, for their sake, tell me what happened." The detective took a deep breath. "Why would this man kill everyone else and not you? I need to know what you saw."
Mrs. Suthers pulled the wedding ring off. A white band of skin sat in its place. She shook her head and shoved the ring back onto her boney finger.
"Okay," she said.
He soaked up the cadence in her speech and recorded the words she rehearsed. A fight occurred between her and her husband; a loud bang echoed through the house as the front door flew open; suddenly, all was red and quiet.
It was nothing new. The detective had heard the same story before in varying accents. The ghost of the victims laughed over his shoulder, pointing out the errors in the black ink that marred the page. He had written 'murderer' thousands of times; why was it always misspelled? It left him with one conclusion: her story wasn't adding up.
Mr. Suthers had it coming. A thesaurus would struggle to describe how grotesque the man was.
But the kids?
No.
He balled his fist; she was lying about the children. A mother's instinct was to protect her kids, not kill them.
​
"Mrs. Suthers," he cut her off, taking in her blood-soaked hands. She flinched every time he said her last name. "Why the boys? That is all I want to know."
"They had his eyes."
The detective pushed himself away from the table and walked into the bedroom. There were only telltale signs that the boys had lived there. It was barren of toys, games, and posters. Nothing was out of place except the small footprints pressed into the brown carpet and the pile of clothes thrown carelessly on the floor. He ripped out the last page of his book.