‘It’s her, Chief.’
I didn’t need to be told. I already knew whose battered, broken body they’d found in the apartment above the Laundromat.
A month ago a painting had been sent to Police HQ. It was a childish mess of colours and shapes, but in amongst the confusion were faces – four faces. As of tonight, three of those faces were dead. They’d all been watched, but they all still died.
Now only one, seemingly unidentified face remained breathing.
‘We’ll get him,’ I said to my lieutenant.
I double-checked my service revolver was loaded. When the coward finally came for me, I’d be waiting.
These words form my entry into Friday Fictioneers photo prompt challenge.
It’s an old prompt, but a new story. No re-treads on here.