The Killer sits down at the table NEXT to us in the coffee shop. I recognize him from the news: Black curly hair, one big eyebrow, whiskers, a faded jean jacket, work pants, boots.

He stares at his coffee, pushes it away, and holds his head in his hands.

I slip out of my chair and glance at Mimi, but she’s tending the twins.

I go stand at his elbow.

He lifts his head and picks up the coffee. Yes?

You killed my Mom and Dad.

The words hit him like a round-house right. His coffee spills.

And see those kids there? I point back towards my table. You killed their Mom and Dad, too.

We stare at each other. His face collapses, tears seep into his whiskers. I’m sorry, he whispers. Sorry. He gets up so fast his chair tips over. He rushes out the door. And leaves his coffee.

I’m pumped up and dazed at the same time. I straighten the chair, sop up the coffee spill, toss the cup in the recycle bin, and walk back to our table.

Mimi watches me over the heads of the twins. She’s shocked.

Me too.

(The revised first 200 words of my story, from the blog of me, Isabel Scheherazade, story-catcher: I’m submitting this to the Dear Lucky Agent 2014 contest. @chucksambuchino


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