#mc/3
Two deaths. One more and she'd be branded a serial killer...or would she? Everything looked like accidents. It happened in the space of a month.
Lying in the arms of her gallery manager, her paintings out, she couldn't find sleep. She kept seeing reruns of her heightened emotions and awareness of those moments. Accidents shouldn't be so easy to stage. It shouldn't be. Her actions were so perfect as well. The wife was called a jealous lunatic even though she wasn't pressed with charges. She had disappeared like smoke.
Speaking of smoke, she wanted one. She went out into the balcony and lit one. Another near full moon. Few clouds, plenty of stars. Arms suddenly went around her and she reacted in surprise. She pushed.
Tiny balcony. Tinier railings. He didn't fall off but he stumbled and had just caught on the railing and supported himself.
"What's wrong sweetheart? Did you have bad dreams?", his concern irritated her. She sidled up close and rested her hands on his chest. "Yes, very bad."
In the split second he let go of the railings to embrace her, to comfort her, she pushed him and leaped back.
He fell off. Six stories. She stood with a blank face at the balcony, still smoking her cigarette.Last thought we know from her, "How to cover up this one now?"
- the end.
