A stolen truck.
A dead body.

A knife.
A life.
A wife,
No more.

He?
Calm, indifferent.
Uncaring.
Odd.

Kitchen counter.
Knife block.
Fifteen spaces.
Fourteen knives.

Bloody tile.
Bloody carpet.
Open eyes.
Not seeing.

Stolen truck.
Stolen papers.
Stolen tools.
Useless clues?

Why wasn’t he upset?
Why didn’t he seem to care?
Why did it take so long to call the police?
Why? Why? Why?

Found the truck.
Projects.
Dangerous.
Drugs.
Thief.
Apartment.
Me?
Not afraid.
Drug dealers, not monsters.

Knock knock.
“What?”
“A murder and a stolen truck.”
“So?”
“Why, it’s right outside, the truck.”
“So?”

Eight men stand.
“So I want to talk to the guy who’s driving it.”
“Wrong house.”
“Don’t think so.”
“Why?”
“Oh, he’s here. But I don’t think he stole the truck.”
“I’ll be outside. Tell him I’ll wait.”

Minutes pass.
Hope I’m right.
My gut usually is.
Door opens.

He sits.
“You didn’t steal the truck, did you?”
A head shake.
He paid you to take those things and then drive away, right?”
A nod.
“He killed his wife, right?”
A look down.
“Yes.”
“Did you get rid of the knife?”

“No. Haven’t seen it.”

Then I know where it is.”
“Let’s have a look inside the truck.”

Under the seat, wrapped in paper.
A bloody knife.

Paid to drive the truck.
Pretend it’s stolen.

Five-hundred dollars.
Stopped to buy crack.

Not knowing he’d been set up.

For murder.

* For Diana

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