Day 38/366

Shelly Davis arrived home from her late shift, exhausted and desperate for a cold drink.  The death of the sheriff had left the department short handed, which normally wouldn't have mattered in a town the size of Rocky Point.  Unfortunately, a string of vandalism had evolved into assaults, and she feared things would only get worse.

The front door was open and the screen was ajar, and she could hear music playing somewhere in the house as she approached the porch.  Carly!  She'd warned her about leaving the screen unlatched.  Insects and all manner of four legged creatures made their way inside the house when entrance was easy.

A month ago the Davis's arrived home to find a cat in their living room.  A cat that heavily resembled a skunk.  Undersheriff Davis had laid down the law in the house after that, emphasizing the necessity of securing the screen when the door was open.

She didn't blame her daughter for wanting some fresh air.  It had been a dark and gloomy winter, and Carly thrived on vitamin D sunshine.  But not securing the screen?  Yeah, that she could get her for.  Shelly entered the mostly quiet home and called out as she unstrapped her utility belt and carried it down the hall.

"Carly?"  she yelled.  "Come talk with me?"  Shelly unpinned her hair, then shook out her auburn curls and let out a sigh of relief.  Taking her hair down rivaled crawling in her pajamas for stress relief and relaxation.  She moved to the closet where her husband had installed her gun safe and quickly punched in her code, then placed her gun and extra cartridges inside, slamming it shut.

If there was one thing she despised, it was being ignored.  Carly was an expert at irritating her lately, and she'd just about reached her limit of patience.  "Carly Ann Davis, get over here right now!"  Still, nothing.  No footsteps, no snarky reply...just that muted music playing somewhere near the kitchen.

"That's it!"  Shelly announced as she made her way to the kitchen.  "You are so grounded, my d--"  She froze.  Time stopped.  Her breath choked in her throat.  Shelly blinked once, twice, then on the third blink a keening sound erupted from her heart.

"Nooooooooo!  Oh, no, no, no..."  Falling to her knees, she slid forward to her daughter, prone on the floor, a plastic bag encasing her face and head, wisps of hair sticking to her daughter's cheek.  "Baby, come on, talk to me.  Talk to Momma, please, baby, talk to me."  She reached to remove the bag, then caught herself.

Evidence.  This was all evidence of--what?  A suicide?  A homicide?  Her grief translated into a whimper as she reached for her cell phone in her back pocket.  She reflexively dialed 911, wanting to hold her daughter's hand, but knowing forensic evidence could be under her nails or on her skin.  Shelly fought for control, slipping into her law enforcement frame of reference and setting aside grieving mom.

"911, what is your emergency?"

"This is Undersheriff Shelly Davis.  I have a 187 at 2356 Appleblossom Court.  Please send...everything you've got.  It's my daughter.  She's been murdered."  With that, her phone hit the floor and her agony erupted uncontrolled.

All words are property of Deena Peterson and not to be used without permission.