Like electrons darting stochastically about an atom’s nucleus, the flies circle the victim’s dead body—a noisy hum against the murder scene’s otherwise grim silence. I hate this part of the job, but I steel myself, reach into the dead man’s sharkskin suit-coat pocket, and remove his cell phone. Checking the phone’s call history, I hit redial, and wait as the phone dials the last number the dead man called, only an hour earlier. A number accompanied solely by the name “Honey.” Three rings, and a woman’s furious voice commands, “Don’t you ever, ever, call me again.” The phone goes dead.
Appeared in Third Wednesday, 2012.
