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Weekly Contest #44
“Yes. I killed your father,” he said, peering up guardedly through wire-rimmed spectacles. There was a long, heavy silence. “He left me no choice.” Then, “A jury ruled it was self-defense.” He sighed. “It was a long time ago.” The speaker was a craggy man, with extra weight around his waist over a thin frame. He was dining alone in a candlelit San Francisco restaurant, overlooking the wharf. He had a bushy mustache, and closely cropped blond hair. He was in his late forties. He wore a business suit, perhaps an accountant. A folded newspaper ...
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