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room where blood coated the walls and rug
like paint.

I shrieked. The roses fell from my hands as I
looked up and saw Mrs. Anderson smiling at
me. She held the chef’s knife, dripping red,
by her side.

Limp and covered in his own blood was
Christopher, laying on the carpet beside her.

Mrs. Anderson sighed. “All fixed,” she
said, dropping the knife on the rug before
smoothing out her navy blue skirt with a pair
of perfectly manicured hands.

I began to get lightheaded as she stepped
towards me, raising a knee to step over her
husband’s lifeless body.

She stopped right in front of me, and
reached towards my feet to collect the
flowers. “Oh, Caroline.”

My feet were frozen to the carpet. I felt fear
and vomit creeping into my throat. I waited,
expecting her to pick up the knife and kill
me, too.

Instead, she turned her back towards me,
arranged the flowers in an empty vase on
the coffee table and said, “Darling, these
are expensive roses. Be careful.”

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