nido 

The Edge

by Amanda Church

Somewhere within the barren house a clock counted a muted chime: one, two. I stared past the hot silver weight in my hand at the woman on the floor, her blood shimmering like cherry-colored oil on the slick white tile, framing a ragged hole between vacant eyes.

Green eyes.

I had no memory of who she was or why I was here among these stark walls. My brain was numb. I knew myself only from scent, and a name that flashed like a neon sign from oblivion.

Mike ... Mike Salino. I'm Mike. I'm Mike.

The thought was somehow calming, a buffer against the madness. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, willing myself to relax, and gradually other images began to filter through. A business trip; I had come home a day early, phoning from the hotel, leaving a message on the machine telling Beverly to pick me up at the airport at 8:30. Waiting an hour; finally grabbing a cab, figuring she was working late. It was raining--that miserable, bone-numbing February rain. Soaking me as I ran up the driveway, calling out to her. The house dark but for the light under our bedroom door. Someone in there talking; laughing. The kind of laugh we used to share just after ...

Tony?

February 3rd, 2000. The date was tattooed on my memory.

My wife and my own brother.

The blood from the woman's ruptured skull was beginning to congeal, turning dark and dull, and before I could stop it, the bile had risen in my throat, my knees jarring on the stark white tile, my body convulsing, its bitter soup lacing the soured carnage on the floor.

I dragged myself to the kitchen. Rinsed out my mouth. Splashed cold water on my face. Looked around; purged and newborn.

There was no evidence of who might live here. No mail on the counter, no notes stuck to the refrigerator. Not a stray hair or a wisp of lint or a water spot on the glazed perfection. Just a calendar on the wall, X's crossing off the first three days of February ... 2007.

2007?

God, were those my screams? Anguish careening off unfamiliar walls, chasing me through the house, past the black empty windows and the white tiled bathroom until my flight was arrested by a flawless, floor-length mirror.

I stared back at the face reflected there, a rim of mottled gray, eyes as dead as the woman’s. I’d forgotten I was still holding the gun when I smashed my hand against the glass.

There was a clean towel in the kitchen, and I was careful to set the gun down on the counter before wrapping the wound.

The gun; I should have left it there. Should have wiped it clean and walked away, but it called to me; a molten god.

I picked it up. Cradled it in my palm with cold intimacy. No cop in the world would believe I wasn't the one who had pulled that trigger. Who had watched with calculated composure as hot metal seared through vital flesh.

I had to get out of this house.

I retraced my steps, back through the foyer, past the cooling corpse, down the glaring corridor that opened into a lush bedroom suite. A wall of glass framed a rumpled bed smothered in decadent satin. Black-framed abstracts splashed across white walls. Polished chests stuffed with silk and lace. It reeked of lavish comfort and ... sex. The scent of it clung to the air, choking me. I swallowed, pushing it down.

Across the room, twin dressing rooms lead to separate bathrooms, a woman’s with dresses cocooned in filmy plastic, a man's lined with drawers on one side, suits and shirts on the other. Shoes aligned precisely on the carpeted floor.

I stripped and selected one of the suits, a gray pinstripe. Perfect fit. A pair of black wingtips slipped on like they were made for me. Better.

I scoured my old pants for a wallet; nothing. Balled up the blood-spattered clothes and stuffed them into a pillowcase. Moved to the night stand on the left side of the bed; the side I’d always preferred. Beverly used to call it protective instinct. Anyone would have to go through me to get to her.

Anyone but ...

The drawer revealed some photos, several sets of car keys, a small box of shells. I glanced at the gun, pocketed the shells, picked up the top photo. A woman posed on a beach in a red string bikini. Handwriting on the back: Sara in Bimini, April 7, 2002 - our honeymoon.

The room started to spin, the nausea returning. I sifted through the keys, grabbed a set with a BMW fob, noticed a business card. Sara Barnes-Salino, Attorney at Law.

I dropped the card and slammed the drawer shut, heading back to the man's closet. Moving with purpose now. There was a jewelry box in one of the drawers--tie tacks and cufflinks; a Rolex watch. I needed cash; I’d settle for value. I slipped it over my wrist.

Sliding the box back into the drawer, I spotted a manilla envelope tucked against the back of the chest. I pulled it out; the front was stamped EVIDENCE--DEFENSE COPY. Half a dozen black and white eight-by-ten glossies inside. Pictures of a crime scene; graphic detail.

The first was a wide shot of two bodies on the floor; a man and a woman. The bed in the background was rumpled, abused. Splattered with gray.

I flipped to the next picture, unable to stop myself.

The man's chest was laid open, the outline of shattered bone glaring white against the gray pulp. His head hung to the side at a crazy angle; the neck had been broken. Something about the jaw, the line of his nose ...

Tangle of dark hair hiding the face.

The woman looked worse. Half her face was gone; a mangled puddle of gore with a single, vacant eye.

Green eyes--you could never tell what they were hiding.

... my own brother?

The eye in the photo was staring at me like it knew. It knew! Even in death, green eyes didn’t change.

I slipped the pictures back into the envelope and tucked them into my jacket, calm now as I walked back to the kitchen, the judge's thunder still crackling through my head.

"... temporary insanity."

Pity ... you would have thought she was smarter than that.