Page 8 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

Both gnomes looked at me.

“…”

“…”

“…Probably.”

Gerald groaned.

“I’ve seen this movie.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“I have and it ends badly.”

“I haven’t even done anything.”

“You’ve imagined your future children’s eye colour.”

I gasped.

“I have not.”

“You were about to.”

“…Brown.”

“I rest my case.”

I climbed into the driver’s seat, closed the door, and rested my forehead against the steering wheel.

“This is ridiculous.”

“It is.”

“I don’t even know him.”

“You don’t.”

“He could be terrible.”

“He could.”

“He could hate dogs.”

“You don’t have a dog.”

“Exactly.”

Frank blinked.

“I fail to see how that helps your argument.”

“It doesn’t.”

Silence settled over the car. I looked through the windshield. The street was empty now. No detective. No footsteps. No whiskey voice. Just me. My ridiculous brain. And a suitcase that had nearly dislocated my shoulder. I started the engine. As the car rolled away, I caught myself glancing into the rear-view mirror. Once. Twice. Three times. Just in case. Gerald sighed so dramatically I thought his little ceramic lungs might crack.

“Oh, we’re doomed.”