Evelyn wakes up with bloodied gloves next to her. She can't figure out where the gloves came from or why they're bloody. But she's not the only one who knows about the gloves...and that could be deadly
The gloves had blood on them. Dark, rust colored blood cakes on to the fibers of the glove in thick droplets. She pocketed the gloves, hiding them from view. She couldn’t remember how she got the blood on them; it was all a blank. Then she looked down, gasping. Right against her feet was a body, stiff from death, eyes open and frantic. Blood pooled at the base of the head, swirling around her feet. Though she didn’t know who he was, there was no question as to how he died. A bullet hole pierced his forehead, cracking bone and embedding in brain tissue, letting the blood run free. But whose bullet and from what gun?
Her heart pounded, rattling her ribs as she took one cautious step back, and then another, putting as much distance between her and the body as possible. Her eyes darted around, wondering if people saw her with them. In the distance she heard the wail of a siren and it was coming closer. She needed to leave.
Darting into the bushes, she kept her head low and her arms tucked close as she dodged fallen tree branches and skidded around the puddles. The sirens were right behind her, blaring and twigs cracked under the weight of uninvited company. It was over; she was done. Skidding behind a rock she crouched down, balancing on the balls of her feet, watching as beams of light pierced the dark night. They knew she came this way; they followed her foot tracks.
Why couldn’t she remember who he was? Why was she the one to kill him? Stuffing her hands in her pockets, she pulled out the gloves, and tossed them to the ground. Fingernails to the dirt, she began to dig a hole, determined to lose the gloves once and for all.
“Come out, Evelyn,” she heard someone said. It was a deep voice, a baritone. “It’s not the police,” the person said. “It’s Caleb. Come out and I can help you, I promise.” Caleb, her Caleb. He would know what to do, how to get her out of this. Pushing the glove down the hole, she covered it up with the soil and emerged from her hiding place. Caleb stood there, a flashlight in his hand and a cigarette in his mouth.
“There you are, sweetness,” he said. “I wasn’t sure you trusted me enough.” Trusted him? Of course she trusted him.
“Can you get me out of here?” she said. “I need to leave before they find me.”
“Did you kill him?” She shrugged. Did she kill him? She couldn’t remember what happened, or where the gun was, so anything was possible. “Do you remember what happened?” She shook her head.
“No,” she said. “All I know is that I found gloves, bloodied gloves. I don’t know whose they were.”
“What did you do with them?” Caleb asked, his voice sharp.
“I buried them,” she said. Why did he care? “They were kind of big gloves, too big for me.” She motioned to his pockets. “They almost reminded me of the gloves you used last year…you know, with your costume.” Caleb ran his hand over the back of his neck, averting eye contact. She paused. “They were, weren’t they?” Her breath left her in one huge wave. It was Caleb; he was the murderer.
“I had no choice,” he said. “They were on to me.” His hand shot out and he grabbed her arm, crushing it. “And now so are you.” Time seemed to pause as his hand flew into the air and he slammed the butt of the flashlight into her skull. Stars erupted and her eyes rolled in the back of her head. She struggled but he struck her again, and again until her body stopped moving. With regret, he dropped the body to the ground and stepped away. She was a casualty; he couldn’t help it.
Blowing one last kiss, he left her, dead in the grass, waiting to be found. Another one bites the dust he thought as he disappeared into the shadows.