This story was written for Friday Fictioneers.
Ask not for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for Peter.
The bell on the porch clanged. Peter sighed and dropped his book on the coffee table.
He forced a smile as he opened the front door. “Help you with somethin’?”
“I know what you did.” The woman standing beneath the porch light stared at her toes, her long, black hair cascading down.
“I know what you did,” she repeated. She lifted her head, her gaze partially obscured by clustered strands of her hair. “You killed my mother, Peter.”
The knife in her left hand twitched. The blade bit into his stomach, sending a waterfall of gore splashing across his slippers.