Even after the investigation was over, I left the crime scene tape up in the shed. It was mine now: the house, the land, his shed.
I went in there sometimes; stood in the greasy dark, smelling the dried blood, the ancient fear, imagining the screams of his victims. And when I got used to the light, I’d see his still-intact oil can collection, and the outlines of his implements of torture on the now-empty pegboard wall. Sharp shapes; so many.
I’d look at them and wonder…would the police give them back?
And what would I do if they did?
This has been an edition of Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting this party and thanks to Nick Allen for this week’s photo. To read more stories inspired by the prompt, click here.