Cause of Death

Sheriff Bud Atkinson clenched his teeth when the call came in.

“Shots fired at the Millweeds.’ Deputy Schultz is already there, but no one’s answering. He needs backup, Sheriff.”

Bud’s grip tightened around the steering wheel. Finally happened. He didn’t need to hear more to know what he’d find. He’d been expecting this. Hell, everyone had.

“Copy that. I’m on my way.”

He tossed the coffee cup into the passenger seat, flipped on the sirens, and floored it. The patrol car lurched forward, chewing up the road between him and what he already knew.

Bud had been to Darla Millweed’s house more times than he cared to count. He’d seen the bruises—the kind that don’t fade from memory, even after the skin clears. Thin arms, bony shoulders, eyes that never left the floor. She never said much. Barely stammered out excuses about falling off her bike or slipping in the tub. Wade Millweed was always there, leaning in the doorway, eyes glinting with a cold, sharp cruelty. Wade smiled a lot, but Bud knew what a predator looked like.

“He’s gonna kill you,” Bud had told her once, voice low. “One of these days, it’ll be too late.”

She’d never let him help.

Now, as Bud turned onto Millweed’s street, porch lights flickered on like wary fireflies. Neighbors clustered on their porches, pretending not to watch but hanging on every sound. He pulled in behind Deputy Schultz’s cruiser, stepping out to meet his deputy at the gate.

Schultz shifted on his feet, fingers resting on his holster. His face was pale, a sheen of sweat catching the streetlights.

“Three shots, Sheriff. Neighbors heard them clear. No response inside. Might be a murder-suicide.”

Bud didn’t reply. His stomach knotted as he grabbed the battering ram from the trunk. They moved toward the front door, the heavy thump of loud music bleeding through the walls. It was too loud. Too wrong.

“Cover me,” Bud muttered.

Schultz drew his gun, positioning himself at the door. Bud swung the ram. The doorframe gave way with a sharp crack, swinging open on its hinges.

“Sheriff’s Department!” Bud shouted into the noise.

Nothing. Just that blaring music and the sickly scent of blood.

Bud stepped into the living room, Schultz close behind. The scene hit like a punch. Wade Millweed was sprawled face-down in a dark pool, limbs twisted like a broken doll. The music blasted from the corner, distorting the scene into something surreal. But Bud’s focus zeroed in on the couch.

Darla was sitting there, pale as a ghost, a pistol heavy in her shaking hands. Her knuckles were white, skin stretched taut. She didn’t even look up when they entered.

“Darla,” Bud called, voice steady despite the pounding in his chest. “Put the gun down.”

Her head turned slowly, eyes wide and vacant, like she was seeing him from the bottom of a well. Tears clung to her lashes, but she didn’t blink them away.

“I-I-I’m pregnant,” she whispered, voice cracked and brittle. “He said he’d k-k-kill it. I had to. I h-h-had to.”

Her grip slackened, and the gun slipped from her lap onto the coffee table with a soft clatter. Bud picked it up, the cold weight familiar in his hand. Schultz moved to kill the radio, and silence swallowed the room.

Bud looked at Darla. Her face was streaked with tears, but her eyes were hollow, emptied of whatever had kept her going all these years. It was over. The thing they’d all been waiting for had finally broken.

But it didn’t feel like an ending.

Bud turned his gaze to Wade’s body. He deserved worse. But justice wasn’t something you served neat, wasn’t something you waited for. You made do with what you had.

“Well, Matt,” Bud said, voice low. “Looks pretty clear.”

“Yeah,” Schultz mumbled. “Plain as day.”

Bud’s eyes drifted to the bike propped against the wall. It felt like an insult now, like it had always been in on the joke. He let out a slow breath. No rush.

He crouched beside Wade’s body, carefully slipping the gun into the dead man’s hand. His fingers were stiff, but Bud positioned them just right.

“Sheriff?” Schultz’s voice was thin, uncertain.

Bud stood, wiping his hands on his pants. His gaze flicked back to Darla.

“Cats,” Bud muttered, almost to himself. “Told folks. You gotta watch out for ‘em when you’re cleaning your gun. Especially when you’re falling off your bike.”

Schultz blinked, confused, but Bud didn’t care. He was already thinking about how many times he’d driven away from this house with that sick feeling in his gut. How many times he’d left her here, with him.

Darla’s face hadn’t moved, but her eyes were starting to catch on. She stared at him, her lip trembling, but no words came.

Bud met her gaze, voice flat. “Not a word, Darla. Not one.”

She nodded, slow, her head barely moving. She’d lost more than Wade tonight. He could see it in the way she sagged, like something inside her had snapped, leaving her hollow. She wouldn’t thank him. She wouldn’t need to.

Bud turned toward the door, his boots heavy on the blood-soaked floor.

“It’s a terrible thing,” he muttered, voice low. “These accidents.”

He didn’t look back.