Friday Fictioneers—later than normal, see previous post and feel free to throw your fist in the air.
Oh god, she thought. Her heart fluttered–beating wings of a dying songbird. She cupped her hand over her neck, hiding its uneven pulse.
The fallen tree demolished her little car, crushing it. The police were trying to clear the road, direct traffic around the debris from the storm.
She saw only the piece of paper, crumpled in the autumn leaves. She never kept papers in her car. Except one.
I will pay you $2.5 thousand dollars to kill my husband.
“Darling, your car!” Roger wrapped his arm around her.
The letter drifted away in an errant gust of wind.