I remain quiet, refusing to look him in the eyes. I know if I do that, then I won’t be able to look back away. Instead, I glide my fork into the creamy white treat smothered with thick raspberry topping and shove it into my mouth.
Mac leans forward, pressing the weight of his shoulders on the table through his elbows. His strong fingers interlace each other and his palms are pressed together. Like the flash of a camera, I see it. This is different than my usual imaginings of murder. It seems a little more real, more unnerving.
Mac’s muscular fingers are flexed, restricting the airway of another man. The neck within his grasp leads to a head that’s as limp as a ragdoll. It’s blurry, I can’t make out the victim’s details, but his entire head is flopping back and forth violently. Mac’s face
