@008kr
The clacking of expensive heels against pavement were the only sounds on a quiet, sleepy street. Brisk. Urgent. The pedestrian’s tall frame was shrouded in a wide hat, long coat, and dark gloves, preserving the face’s anonymity-- a shadow as the figure slowed down and waited at the bus stop, repeatedly glancing at her watch.
Finally, the vehicle approached, screeching to a halt to allow her on. Stepping on, she took a seat at the back, remaining still-- nearly catatonic-- until she reached her next stop.
Off she stepped, and continued her journey. A ten minute walk to the Amtrak station from here. She pressed on, each step taking her further from the murder she was going to be accused of.
On the other side of town lies a Gérard Lacroix, dead by a gunshot wound, comfortably situated in his bed. No struggle, no indication he was aware of being killed. He was one of two new residents in the lavish apartment. French imports. His wife, Amélie Lacroix did her best to conceal her bloodied night gown under her coat as she tried to flee. The police could have arrived to the scene moments after she left, they could have already discovered her. She had absolutely no time.