Spill

A single drop of blood sat the cuff of my sleeve, yelling at the top of its lungs, “She’s a murderer! She’s the one you’re looking for!”

The police were going table to table, inquiring politely if anyone had seen a muscular, bearded man in the last ten minutes. Of course, they had not, as I ditched the beard and the muscle suit in an alley several minutes before walking out and taking this table. Now, a slender woman of 54, I was invisible, but for the drop of blood I had somehow missed.

The waiter returned to my table, croissant and espresso at the ready. I took a bite of the croissant. I could feel the chocolate melt on my tongue. The espresso would be too hot for a sip, but I brought it close to my face, breathed in deeply, and savored the warm acidity of the aroma.

An officer walked over to my table. I dripped the coffee expertly onto my sleeve.

“Shit. I’m so sorry. I’ve just spilt my coffee.”

The spot was gone, but he knew. He had seen it happen, his eyes darting towards my sleeve as the coffee began to tip over the edge of the glass.

His pistol was out and the shot was off before I could react. Straight to the heart.

Adrenaline blasted my senses into high gear. His badge was wrong. The gun was wrong. Wrong make, wrong caliber, and he held it like a connoisseur. He was no officer of the law. He was one of them.

I smiled grimly. I had lost the game.