“Is it his?” the cop asked.
I nodded, baring my own ankle to show off its twin A week of submersion had distorted the image, though I could still make out the stem of the rose, the blood red now faded to a hazy purple, the words ‘til death’ blurred into one amorphous blob.
“I did them myself. They were meant to be his wedding gift.”
But then John had disappeared before the service.
Along with my bridesmaid.
“That’s unfortunate.” His voice was hard and cold, like the metallic bite of the handcuffs. “Because according to the coroner, the tattoo was done post-mortem.”
Shannon Schuren lives in Sheboygan Falls, Wisconsin with her husband and three children. She works at a child-care center and finds writing both emotionally rewarding and a great way to avoid murdering her relatives. Her short stories have appeared in Toasted Cheese Literary Journal and Mysteryauthors.com, and will appear in upcoming issues of Big Pulp and the Ultra-Short edition of The Binnacle.