Tracy Mayne

Little Black Book

As he pulled his cruiser over, he thought, “This is gonna be bad.” He took a deep breath, exhaled, and got out. The front of the car was accordioned against the tree. A head, half crushed, stuck through the windshield. The blood was a slow drip onto the shattered safety glass. No spurting, the man was dead. It seeped through the craquelured shards and glinted ruby in the headlights, strangely beautiful.