Chapter 1

Part 1

Kiki Lowe

Sunday is my least favorite day of the week, unlike most women in this town. I begin them by cleaning around the house, scrubbing the marble counter top with yellow gloves slapped on my hands and sponging the white subway tiles of the kitchen. Dirt accumulates in all corners of this house all week long, Sunday's the perfect time to bring them back to a full shine. I like to escape the house after, I tell him I'm headed to church but I rarely go. Instead I drive to the park and sit under a magnolia to read a novel. My favorite author speaks of how to be a God fearing wife, I mostly want tips on how to keep my faith in the midst of doubt. After streaming through thirty pages or so - I'm a very fast reader - I fish for my phone and call Michael. Its a short call but it makes my mood slightly better. I call and I tell him about my day then I hang up, I have to be home by noon to put the pulled pork I prepared the night before in the oven. We eat together in the still silence and the day stretches slowly as he bears me down with his presence. Mondays are slightly different, that's when I have time for myself. I prepare his breakfast and iron his shirt, smart-pants, polish his shoes, it usually leaves my hands smeared and sticky, dark-coal lumps of shoe wax rest beneath my nails by the time I'm done. He's gone to work by eight o'clock and he's almost always late. He takes tremendous amounts of time in the bathroom listening to the radio while reading a magazine on the toilet seat - he's told me - and then he uses up more time when he gobbles down his breakfast. He's a very much of a slow eater, the way he slugs his coffee makes it seem like the world has been set in slow motion. Once he finally sets off for work, I clean around the house; so much dirt, cobwebs in the corners, food stains and dirty plates. I'm a busy woman when it comes to that. I watch the television then, read some more and I pay a visit to the Morelli's - my next door neighbors. Did I mention them? They're a beautiful family with one wonderful teenage girl named Janet. Mr.Morelli's been sick lately, so I do my best to bring him an apple pie every now and then, his wife is at work and his daughter at school when I do, the neighborhood is bereft of people during those hours and I relish the constant quiet. Around ten o'clock in the evening I get down on my knees and please my husband. He decides when he wants to touch me, when he wants me to touch him. He likes to finish and leave me there waiting for him to fetch a handkerchief. He then watches as I swab my lips, it makes him feel in control, he once said, when we were much younger. Tuesdays must be the worst, because I give the toilets a meticulous clean. He's messy, there's water soaking the carpet entirely, marks of toothpaste dotting the mirror where I often get lost staring at myself - I'm not who I used to be - my eyes have swelled, they're voluminous lemons, my black hair has a fine bar of grey cascading down the sides, I'm growing old. Another detail is that he never flushes when he takes a piss; weak bladder he says. Which is why when I went over to share an apple pie with Mr.Morelli and found him dead with a knife in his throat, I had the idea of scooping up a bit of my husband's piss to spill it on the crime scene.

To be fair its not the only thing I did, and my initial reaction was very different. I pulled out the pie and let it cool, then I stepped out onto the driveway, something seemed different, the bed of roses that edged the Morelli's lawn had been stepped over. Still I didn't make much of it and walked to their home like a normal person would, and when I neared the door I realized it was open by a crack. I found it odd again, but still I pushed and let myself in, calling for him. The wide corridor had a white staircase leading to the first floor and a round antique table with a large vase of white roses atop. It was of an uneasy quietness, surely the television must have been roaring through one football game. I remember he had an incredible love for football, in fact there are a thousand pictures in the hallway at the entrance with a young mustached Morelli posing next to famous football players. But in that moment there was no smell of beer or burnt toast, and not a sound but my beating heart. I walked through the arched door that lead into the living room and there he was, body laying on a reclined one-seater, the cook's knife half buried in his neck. Blood had jerked all over the cream wall behind him, some of it dotted his lips and silver hair. Immediately I recoiled in horror without dropping the pie at all. My heart bounced from all sides and refused to settle, I pulled in all the air I could, but still the sight of a dead Morelli didn't -- couldn't sit well with me. Bile gathered in my throat and I pushed it down with a gulp. He had his hands both placed on the arms of the chair and one leg extended towards the coffee table while the other rested on his thigh. I imagined him comfortably sleeping there, shoe less and comfortable in his blue jeans while someone crept up from behind to end his life. But who? My heart jumped again. I was very aware of being in a crime scene so I stood there, feeling that sting of bile in my throat, whispered an 'oh my God,' and drew back towards the door. Then I stopped dead. What if the murderer was still around? What if he were upstairs and knew someone had come in? I reluctantly made for the door, still open, and slid through.

Its only when I got home that I dropped on my couch and finally took a full breath. I had been petrified, and now I wondered who could have done it, why and how. I dialed 911 and froze. A certain idea had slipped into my head out of nowhere, and if someone had summoned it for me, it must have been the devil himself. Yet I was nourishing this very thought, and it felt so wrong that it gave me a buzz, I dropped my phone and shook my head in reject, pushing it further away into the parts of my mind that I never venture to. But what if it could work? What if I could pull it off? I wasn't sure whether to call or do that thing I wanted to do. Then I remembered why I wanted to do this thing. My brain shut down and I stopped the thoughts like one stops a tap from pouring or an engine from reeving. I grabbed a clean red plastic cup -- one of the few that remains -- and went over to the bathroom. He hadn't flushed before leaving, a solid yellow pooled at the bottom of the bowl. I scooped from the middle, trying to get mostly piss and less water. I watched it rock back and forth in the cup until it settled, and fear tumbled into the pit of my stomach with a thunderous force. What if someone saw me coming and going? That would look bad, and that's a good way to put it, it'd immediately incriminate me. Just as I was about to pour the piss back inside it occurred to me that the only four neighbors around who would supposedly see me were meant to be at work, it was only half past nine after all, plus the children were at school or nonexistent. Unless someone was sick or spying, I could make a quick trip unnoticed. I decided to do it, and nothing was going to stop me from the moment the decision cemented itself. I walked fast, the piss rocked in the cup, some of it escaped and spilled onto the side of my hand, but I was more preoccupied with getting it to the crime scene as fast as possible. His body still laid there, of course, and part of me wished I had imagined the whole thing. But here he was, dead and gone, and I, I was ready to f**k my man over. I jerked the cup towards Morelli's abdomen, the piss soaked his sweater and jeans entirely, the whole thing looked gory. It seemed as though he had peed in his final moments. I gestured the sign of the cross, guilt crept in, and I ran out with a million thoughts racing in my mind.

Raw excitement coursed through my veins as all the possibilities paraded one by one in my mind, I shut the main door and let out relief and dread in the form of a long sigh. They'd arrest him surely? Maybe he'd do some good time. I sat rigid on the staircase facing the front door with the cup on the last thread of stair, my hands clasped to each other, the tick tock of the clock playing with the silence and my heart pumping and pumping as I imagined away. Its as I bit my lip that it occurred to me -- what if poor Janet came back from school and found her father dead on the couch? It was nothing that a child should see, so I did what I had to. I walked to the living room and with a trembling hand I dialed 911 again. This time it rang, with a piercing intensity, and my stress spiked when a young woman picked up.

'911 whats the emergency.'

'Hi -- Hello? Yes I'm Kiki Lowe, I just found my neighbor dead on his couch. He was murdered'

'M'am are you at the crime scene? Are you safe M'am.'

'Yes. I'm safe. Please send for your people now.'

And with those few words, my once so peaceful neighborhood wasn't so peaceful anymore. Police cars and officers rushing in and out of the Morelli's home swarmed the block some minutes later. Its not long after hearing the sirens that urgent knocks beat against the main door. In my mind I had mentally prepared myself for it, but now they were here, and I wondered if i would be able to get away with the series of lies I'd concocted. I never lie, and if I have to, I'll only lie to him. Now as I thought about what I had done, and the weight of it, another idea began to sprout in my mind. It was evil and gross and made me feel impure, but another part of me couldn't resist the sweet temptation. It was as though mist had finally cleared to a perfect road, and I had to take it now.

A big man with a red nose and blotches on his pale skin walked through the door, he wore a suit and was followed by a beautiful girl with chocolate skin -- like mine but only it was spotless -- and long legs, I envied her sex appeal, and the sight of her large breasts made me wrap my arms around myself instinctively. He presented himself as Agent Mack Brown and his colleague Annaya Smith. I offered that they sit, they declined, I asked if they wanted tea or coffee, they declined that too. Embarrassed, I stood there by the staircase leading upstairs while they lingered by the door. Mac's gaze traveled past me, Annaya scanned me up and down like a copy machine. I like to think she wasn't judging my washed up joggers and old beige cardigan.

'You found the body,' Annaya began.

'Yes, I was only going to give him a pie and the door was open and he was --'

'Hold on,' Mac interrupted, he conjured a notepad from a fairly large pocket in front of his jacket, it was perhaps a jacket tailored to his size, he was a big man.

'The door was open, and you went in?'

'Yes, we do know each other, but I didn't make much of it. Only that he was sick and that I've been bringing him pies for three days'

'Tell us at what time you found his body, and what you did after.'

The way they were looking at me, I couldn't discern exactly what it was, but it didn't feel any bit good, its as though they could see it on my face -- that I had thrown my husband's piss on a corpse an hour earlier.

'Maybe ten? I went early, I'm not sure.'

'Know anyone who could have wanted to harm John Morelli?' My heart skipped a beat, Annaya must have seen the turbulence in my eyes, because hers narrowed into focus.

'I -- I don't know -- he was very kind. The only time I saw him mad was -- no I shouldn't say.'

'Please,' Mac said almost too quickly, 'don't be afraid. It's purely confidential.'

'Well -- he and my husband, they argued. At the end my husband wasn't too happy, but neither was John.'

'What did they argue about?'

'Morelli's dog, coming into our yard and digging.'

'They have a dog?' They both looked at each other.

'Oh, no, not anymore.'

Silence. Mac nodded, fixed his tie and thanked me for my time, Annaya didn't seem ready to leave just yet, she had this thing in her gaze, something that told me she had more questions that needed answering. But relief washed over me once they turned and started for the door.

'Is that cup some sort of house decoration?' Annaya said, pointing to something behind me, I turned, and froze. Air escaped my lungs, causing me to choke on my words.

'Oh my - I - I'm sorry, I'll clean that right up.' I rushed to the cup and nursed it in my arm. In my head I heard Kevin say, God what a stupid woman you are, and winced. 

'I don't know what that's doing here, silly me.' I simulated a deceptive smile before Annaya and her colleague nodded again and left.

Yes, my husband and John did have an argument, and yes it was about their dog Hop who wouldn't stop digging in our yard. That was six years ago though, the dog died from old age. But if it's enough to allow Mac and Annaya's suspicious to wander towards my husband, then I did the right thing. It's eight o'clock and he's back from work. It was a long day for him, but also for me. He always let out this sigh when he comes back home, like he's disappointed in something. Yet the house is irreproachably scrubbed clean, there's a hot plate of food wrapped in aluminum foil on the counter-top, and I'm quietly hand stitching a button back on his smart pants, in a corner of our living room. I watch him unbutton his shirt as I stitch: up, down, over and under. My eyes dart from my sewing to the 6'4 broad man sinking on the sofa facing me. I tend to want to catch him staring at me. He never does. Instead he retrieves a book from his leather black bag, adjust his rectangular glasses with a finger, then submerges himself in his book. He's going to talk to me when he's read three or four lines.

'They're planning to lay off fifteen people. Fifteen. And guess who has to do it?' he says, gaze fixed on a half-turned page of his novel.

'Me!' His voice rises to a scream before I can even say anything. He scratches his goatee, strokes his bald head and breathes in with some unnecessary intensity.

'I'm sorry Kevin.'

'Yeah. Tell that to their families.'

I say nothing, but then I remember.

'John Morelli was found dead, I found the body, this morning. He was murdered.'

Kevin shuts his book with a thud and looks in my direction with a gaping mouth, I can't see his expression completely, the room is too dark, and if it weren't for the soft orange glow of the lamp in the opposite corner from me, we'd have been submerged in the most negative and oppressive darkness as I shared the news. 'What? Murdered? Here?' He erects from his seat, hands gripping his waist.

'Wow. Wow. That explains the-- police car and --wow -- that's.'

He trails off, pacing away from the sofa and scratching his head.

'They were fighting yesterday.' What he said doesn't particularly interest me, but its enough to stop me from knitting to ask what he's talking about.

'There was a fight yesterday, I was on the porch. They were arguing on theirs, and she was screaming.' He responds flatly, like the detail is irrelevant.

'Who? who was fighting?'

'Who do you think? John and his wife,' he snaps.

'And why?'

'The f**k I know why?'

I purse my lips, trying to focus on the tiny black button, but I jam the needle into my finger. I squeal softly, blood swells and grows. dark, black bead of blood.

'He screamed something at one point' Kevin says, 'he said" shut up " you crazy b***h - the neighbors are going to hear you.'' '

Janet Morelli

A thick cloud of white smoke circles my head like mist on a mountain top, I get lost staring at its texture -- fuzzy and insubstantial. The Christmas lights poorly hanging from my ceiling give it a glossy look. I'm aware that it's my eighth cigarette, but it's the only thing that can make me cope with the realities that I've faced tonight. The first reality is that father was found dead with a knife in his throat just downstairs. The second is that life is so finite, so unpredictable and unfair. Third, that I'm not shattered by the fact that he's gone, but that someone might be out to get us. Fourth, that I lost two people I loved in less than two years. I did love father, after all. The door opens slightly, and mother's head pops out of the opening,

'can I come in?'

I nod. She sinks next to me and looks around aimlessly. Her gaze travels to the new Jimmy Hendrix poster at the headboard of my double bed, then down to the Marlboro pack, they linger.

'Give me one would you?'

I hand her a cigarette and she pops it in her mouth. I doubt that she's ever smoked in her life. I give her a light. She inhales, coughs, and drags again with a frown of determination. Today her hair isn't mopped into that perfect school girl bun, it falls to her shoulders, curtaining her face almost. 'God, this tastes like horse-s**t.' She passes it over to me. I pull on the killer, and she allows it. It's unusual, I usually have to wait until she's asleep to drain the remains of her wine, gin or beer. But now she's letting me smoke, because Dad is dead.

'What are we going to do?'

'What do you mean?' She bites into her lower lip, her perfect white front teeth are smudged with red.

'We're going to be fine baby. They'll - they'll ..huh.. find out who did this, and it'll be just fine. Okay? Pack some clothes we're not sleeping here tonight.'

'Mom that's all you're going to say? F**k that,' She whips around, she's going to be furious.

'Janet!'

'Mom they found Dad dead and you won't say a thing? Are you even ok? You didn't even ask if I was okay!'

She nurses her forehead, her eyes tightly closed. She's been drinking.

'We'll talk when we're away from here sweetheart, just one night. Pack your bags.'

My heart sinks. After hearing about Dad's death when I got home from school, I prayed that mother wouldn't act suspicious, that I wouldn't suspect her. Because I heard them fight last night, her screams woke me up and I walked out of my room, into the cold corridor and down that darn spiraling staircase that makes my head spin when I storm down too fast. I overheard her saying something, it had to do with the neighbors, the Lowe family. 'For f**k's sake she lives right across from us John,' she yelled, and I think she punched Dad because he groaned like a wounded animal. Now I'm submerged by some form of fear and doubt. Whoever murdered my Dad, isn't far.

Reviews

[Karen Redburn]

I've picked up where I left off and I must say, I am really enjoying the story now. We have the Kiki, who is living the worst sort of mundane life. Then there's Kevin, whom I'm already loving to hate. The detectives, Annaya definitely has suspicions, and I'm liking her. Finally Janet, who is suspicious of her mother. Yep all the great makings of a fantastic suspense novel.

[KFA]

Glad you liked it! Let me know your thoughts on how things unfold, (if you get to finishing it.)

[Annette Pisano-Higley]

Intriguing storyline with great detail and graphic realism. Perhaps wincingly graphic at times for me. Good character development, paragraph transition, plot. Holds the reader’s attention throughout. I am not a prose writer, however I think this story shows much talent and potential.

[KFA]

I take note, thank you v much!

[Karen Redburn]

Hi there, I have read to the part where the police arrive on scene. I will definitely be back to read more it is an excellent story idea with a great hook and clean writing. If I can offer one criticism it might be wordiness. I found myself saying I get it, I get it, in my head as I was reading the first few paragraphs. So for me the mundane was overstated, that aside I'm loving the read!

[KFA]

Will work on the wordiness and watch out for it as I write. Thank you !

[audacious]

enjoyed being able to read it, although the font size makes it slightly difficult. I'm intrigued how you introduce the characters and leave so much to the imagination about them but also describe their actions, such as Kiki with great details! Cant wait to read the next chapter

[KFA]

Trying to find the right font size but it keeps messing with my commas and quotation marks. Will work on it! Chapter 2 and 3 are up! x

[AmateurWriter01]

This is a very interesting story. It had me captivated till the end of the page. It kind of makes me wonder if the lady who dumped the piss was a bit abused, not saying it was physical but more emotional. Stuff like that can make someone do such crazy things.

At first it made me wonder why she was so submissive and subservient to him. He really didn't show her any type of respect at all.

Now I am really wondering where this story and who really killed him. Was it his wife who did it? She seems a bit sketchy wanting to take her daughter a way for a couple days and also the death doesn't seem to be effecting her as much.

This was pretty good and I enjoyed it. My only critique would be is maybe turn those massive paragraphs into multiple smaller paragraphs.

[KFA]

Thank you very much! I've taken in your suggestions. Chapter 2 and chapter 3 are up!

[Susan 🦋]

I like it. The plot and story line is interseting. Wording could be a bit more enhanced in regards to descriptions/feelings/emotions. I would definitely change font size ( this was difficult to read) As far as drawing the reader in...it's good!. So many ways this little story can turn out. I'd like to read more about this crazy relationship... what drives the main character to such desperation.. Nicely done :-)

[KFA]

I've taken into consideration all you said! Very helpful. Next chapter is up :)

[Heilig]

I'll be honest. It seemed a little boring in the beginning, but then "action" took place and it became interesting. I'm intrigued. There are definitely several people to suspect. I enjoyed reading this anyway. Keep going! I want the mystery to be solved.