RED UMBRELLA: FIRST KILL(PT 3) A MYSTERY SHORT STORY TO KEEP YOU ON EDGE
“Mum…….” I heard the faint, faltering call as my gaze fell upon the knife clutched in my hand.
I had emerged from my customary amnesiac slumber only to find myself beside my daughter, who was valiantly striving to stem the flow of blood from her throat.
“Sarah,” I cried out to her but she shrank from me, her eyes filled with a deep-seated fear.
Her life’s blood was ebbing away and her hands, now feeble and ineffective, could no longer stanch the wound.
I was struck dumb, unsure of how this calamity had befallen us or what course of action to take. The thought of the media’s scrutiny was too ghastly to contemplate – Lydia the esteemed detective, driven to madness and murder, slaying her only child in the wake of her husband’s mysterious demise. “Oh, the ignominy!”
“Sarah,” I endeavored to rise but the migraines that assailed me were so excruciating that I prayed for the sweet release of death.
“Not… your… fault,” she whispered, her words cutting me to the very quick.
The worst imaginable words for a mother.
I beheld in horror as my daughter’s struggles ceased, her life force receding away.
“Sarah,” I crawled with utmost effort to her side. “Wake up! Don’t give up on me. Let’s get you to the hospital.”
Alas, she remained unresponsive. My wails and screams for succor were but the ravings of a lunatic, bereft of reason or solace.
“What have I done?” I slapped myself in a futile attempt to recall the events leading up to this tragedy but my mind remained a complete blank. I was as useless as I had ever been.
“Sarah,” I attempted to close her eyes but the anguish was too much to bear.
And then my phone rang followed by the doorbell.
“She’s not responding,” Ramsey articulated, his impatient knocks on the door growing more insistent.
I knew from the fervor of his murmurs that I was destined for arrest.
“Lydia Benson!” he thundered. “We possess the fingerprint evidence. Open the damn door!”
“Wait”, I descended downstairs, resolved to face my fate with dignity. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
God knows attempting to conceal this crime would serve no purpose, neither for myself nor the court. When the truth eventually comes to light – and it would – that I had slain my husband’s family, I would be condemned to life imprisonment. Who would credit my claims of intermittent blackouts or memory lapses? My only witness and alibi is dead.
“Open Lydia! We don’t have a minute to spare”, Ramsey continued to knock, his tone growing more menacing. “Open now or we shall force entry!”
“I am coming,” I reached for the door knob but my phone rang once more. It was Grace, the forensic expert I had encountered earlier.
“Open for the final time!” Ramsey bellowed, his anger nearly causing him to break down the door.
I raised my hands in surrender as I clicked it.
“Do not move!” he commanded, restraining me. “Were you aware, Lydia, that Sarah was your husband’s murderer all along?”
“What?” I gasped, my eyes wide with astonishment as officers entered my living room, searching every nook and cranny for my daughter.
“Come quickly sir!” Ramsey stood awestruck confiscating my still-ringing phone as two officers drew his attention to the cold murder upstairs.
“What is the meaning of this?” he asked as his eyes fell upon my bloodied attire whilst ascending up the stairs.
“It is the deceased young lady sir,” one of the officers pointed out Sarah’s lifeless form, a chef’s knife lying beside her.
“What deceased young lady?” Ramsey inquired, his voice tinged with stupefaction as he observed my daughter’s body. “Should I deem this genius or murder?” he turned to me, his expression solid.
“I can explain”, I implored, tears streaming down my face. “I suffer from amnesia. I forget things. I know not how or why, but I swear ’tis the truth.”
“No it’s not”,he retaliated, descending to where I knelt. “Whether you term it amnesia or dementia Lydia, you have killed your own daughter”, he shook his head in disappointment, “tell your innocence to the judge.”
As all present stood aghast at the dire turn of events, I knew I had to devise a plan to extricate myself from this predicament.
“Lydia, you are a decorated detective,” I reasoned with myself. “What would you do if another were in your shoes?”
“Run a fingerprint scan,” I responded with alacrity. “What?” Ramsey paused, handcuffs in hand.
“Run a scan on that knife and…and….examine the CCTV footage,” I exclaimed. “This would prove I was framed.”
“Framed?” my partner repeated, confusion etched on his face.
Yet Grace continued to call and with each ring, I sensed a hidden truth beneath this charade.
“I believe you,” Ramsey whispered in my ears as he fastened the cuffs on my wrists. “But let us look defeated, for now.”
