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Ditching The Murder Weapon



I took back my dagger, now as loathsome as a serpent, slid it into my sheath, and wiped my hands inside the skirt of my tunic. My eyes darted left and right. Nothing. No other evidence of my presence. So, I climbed onto that old trunk and straddled the windowsill. Looking back to make sure I hadn’t scraped the pigeon shit, dead flies, and dust caked on the windowsill, I paddled through the foliage. Quickly I sprang to the ground with only one thought, to get rid of the only remaining proof of my crime. So,  I let my nose lead me back to that putrid the canal.

 

The skin of the canal was blistered with debris and blotched with oily stains. What if the dagger just floated on the scum? Icy sweat drilled down my spine. I paused for a group of walnut-colored ragamuffins to scamper by, and then holding my breath, I hurled it into the filth.

 

And waited. 

 

It lay there on an island of froth.

 

Ma Zeus! Why won’t it sink?

 

I gnawed on a cuticle until I tasted blood.

 

This story, “The Dagger” in The Deadliest Deceptions, will take you to The Pegasus, a sordid waterfront inn for the likes of thieves, cutthroats, and retired gladiators.  Make sure you wash your hands. Then click here.



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