I looked at the knife in my hand, watching as it fell to the floor, clattering against the tile Mike had just laid down a few days ago. The bloody tip of the knife created interesting patterns that could have distracted me except for the sound reverberating off the walls. I finally looked at his body, laying there in the bed I made him when he moved in with us months ago.
Crap, there is no way I’m going to be able to move him by myself now. He is 145 pounds of dead weight. I thought to myself.
Mike’s black f-350 was parked in the driveway, so all I had to do was get him down the stairs without waking anyone and then drive the car out to the swamp; the animals should take care of the rest.
I wrapped him carefully in the flat sheet from his bed and slowly dragged his body down the stairs, cautious to avoid the squeaky treads and loose floorboards. When I shoved Mike into the front seat I realized I had made one crucial mistake. I had forgotten about the video camera Dad had installed across the street when he had a dangerous case in the department.
I drove and drove, until I was certain no one was following and that I was far enough out of town that I wouldn’t be connected to the murder. Dumping his body, I finally felt like I was able to say good bye. Now, to take care of that pesky camera and get myself out of the sticky situation I had created.
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