Page 99 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

Oh well. The things we have to research just to write a compelling thriller novel, right? I like to imagine my house as a crime scene in need of cleaning. It works like a charm every time. You should try it.

Walking back outside I see Max already sprawled across the porch like he owned the mortgage. His tail thumped once when he saw me. I scratched behind his ears.

"Morning."

He yawned. Same. We sat together in comfortable silence. Or… As comfortable as silence ever becomes. My eyes drifted. Down the dirt road. Toward town. Toward the sheriff's station. Toward someone who probably hadn't slept enough. I frowned looking back at Max.

"What?"

Max looked up.

"I'm not going."

He blinked.

"I'm absolutely not."

His ears twitched.

"I'm staying right here."

A beat passed. Another. I took one sip of coffee. Then another.

"I do need honey."

Max gave me the most unimpressed look I'd ever received from a dog.

"I do."

His expression didn't change.

"And flour."

Nothing.

"Possibly cinnamon."

Still nothing. I sighed dramatically.

"Oh, don't look at me like that."

I stood, brushing invisible lint from Elias's jersey.

"I'm simply supporting local businesses."

Max stood too. Because, apparently, he knew me better than I knew myself. I pointed a finger at him.

"I am not going to accidentally walk past the sheriff's station."

He sneezed.

"That wasn't very supportive.”

Seraphina

Grocery stores are weird. Everyone smiles. Everyone asks how you're doing, but nobody actually wants the answer. They just want the polite version. Good. Fine. Can't complain.

Humans are funny like that. They wander the aisles collecting bread, milk, vegetables... little conversations they'll forget before they reach the parking lot.