Mariel wanted to scream. She wanted to run, but something was keeping her feet rooted to the ground, her face fixated on the corpse in front of her. It had nothing to do with her years of detective schooling. It had nothing to do with her rough upbringing, being raised on the streets of Chicago as a girl. It had, in fact, to do with her children. The figure in front of her could have been 18 at best, which would have made him two years older than her eldest daughter. Immediately, Mariel’s motherly instincts kicked into gear. She knew she had to do something, but what?
* * *
Mabel Maplethorpe was sitting at home, wondering what was taking her mother so long. The pancakes were getting cold, and she grumbled at the prospect of waiting another 15 minutes. She picked up the phone, and dialed her mother’s cell #, but it went straight to voicemail. Just as she hung up, she got another call. Thinking it was her mother, she picked up the phone.
"Hello?"
No comments:
Post a Comment