Page 147 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

"And then you close the blinds."

His breathing changed. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

"Do you know what that makes you, Thomas?"

I leaned down until we were almost eye level.

"Not innocent."

I drove the pen straight through the back of his hand.

His scream exploded through the workshop, echoing off the concrete walls as the pen buried itself into the old wooden desk beneath.

The laptop snapped shut, the plastic coming together with a sharp, hollow clack that broke the quiet of the kitchen. I leaned back in my chair, the old wood answering with a soft creak beneath my weight. For a long moment I didn't say anything. I simply looked at the empty chair across from me.

Or...

Maybe it isn't empty. Maybe you're still there. Still following the words like breadcrumbs through the forest. I wonder if you've started looking over your shoulder yet.

A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth.

You know what's funny?

The question drifted into the quiet kitchen like steam from my untouched tea.

People are absolutely obsessed with fingerprints. Every television show, every cheap paperback thriller they all treat a ridgeline like a legal document signed in blood. They think a fingerprint solves everything

I reached into the ceramic fruit bowl and picked up a lemon, turning it slowly in my hands. The peel felt cool beneath my fingertips, the tiny pores catching against my skin.

That’s television. In the real world, a fingerprint only matters if you leave one somewhere investigators actually decide to examine. Forensic teams don't have the budget or the hours to dust an entire house; they look at the primary transit points. The doorknobs. The safe locks. The steering wheels. Every detective show, thriller and true-crime documentary. They all act as though a single fingerprint ends the story.

I picked up the small silver paring knife from the counter, the steel cold against my palm. I began to peel the lemon.

If only investigations were that tidy.

The paring knife slid easily into my hand into the skin.

Slice.

Turn.

Slice.

The yellow peel curled away from the fruit in one long ribbon.

People spend hours worrying about gloves.

I continued, my eyes tracking the movement of the steel.

They buy those thin latex ones or use dish-gloves from the supermarket, thinking they’re being clever. But gloves create confidence and confidence makes people sloppy. If you wear gloves, you don't notice when your elbow brushes a dusty doorframe, or when a loose fiber from your sleeve snags on a rough wooden latch. You think you’re invisible, so you stop watching your moves.

I dropped the long yellow curl onto the table, the naked fruit white and weeping in my hand.

If Joey were real... she wouldn't wear gloves at all. No. The smartest killers don't hide every fingerprint. They leave thousands of them. They touch shopping carts at the feed store, coffee mugs at the diner, pens at the bank counter, receipts at the pump. They smear their skin across every common surface in the county grid until their DNA is part of the local air. Because then... How do you prove which print matters? How does a detective prove that the ridgeline on the counter wasn't left when you were just buying a pack of gum?

I think that's why readers love detectives so much because detectives make chaos feel organized. They gather tiny pieces and somehow convince everyone that those pieces only fit together one way.

I looked up.