The Note in Moira’s Kitchen

The kitchen smells of blood. It’s a sharp, metallic tang that clings to Moira’s tongue and nose, making it impossible to breathe deeply without gagging. Her fingers ache from clutching the crumpled letter too tightly. She forces herself to loosen her grip, her hands trembling as she unfolds the paper again.

The words blur. She’s read them so many times they’ve seared into her mind, yet she keeps hoping they’ll change. But they don’t.

“I am the one who killed your little girl.”

The room is silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant ticking of the wall clock. Her gaze shifts to Esteban’s body, slumped on the couch. His head lolls at an unnatural angle, his once-beautiful face obliterated into an unrecognizable mass of blood and bone. The Buddha statue lies on the floor beside him, its serene face cracked in half, the blood drying to a dull rust on its stone surface.

Her mind spins, circling the same thought over and over: I loved him. I killed him.