Blood On Her Hands

Chapter 1

No matter what I did, I could not get the blood off of my skin.

Not nineteen years ago when the droplets dotted my cheeks and forehead. Not in the bathroom of the precinct with it coating every crevice and crease on my hands.

The metal rim of the bathroom mirror was rusted and smelled of copper. I brought my hand up to my face to brush my hair back and caught the lingering scent of fleeting life. Biting back a gag, I willed myself to pull it together - to not completely fall apart.

Completely falling apart came with too high of a price. It would cost me everything I had worked so hard to acquire. I would know. It had cost me everything before.

My sister had never stopped trying to put me back together since the last time. She was gluing extra pieces to a finished puzzle. She distorted the image with every addition and cast aside the pieces she didn't like.

"She loves me," I whispered to the walls. Despite it all, she truly loved me.

And I loved her. I loved her and I didn't know if she was okay.

The last time we saw each other, she wore a sparkling white gown and tiara. Her hair was pinned up in the most elaborate updo I had ever seen and she had an arm resting across her husband's shoulders. Her smile was as bright as the moon against the night sky.

What was only several hours ago seemed like a rapidly fading dream. Her wedding was another lifetime and I was trapped in the limbo of before and after: Before the men with guns crashed the wedding and after.

The scenario was all but unfamiliar. My life had been divided like this previously.

Before my mother was murdered and after.

I knew that when my sister found her way back to me she wouldn't give herself the time to cry before being certain it wouldn't further shatter me. It wouldn't matter that it was her wedding, that they had pointed the gun at her husband first. She wouldn't give herself permission to blink until she knew I was taken care of.

I didn't know if I loved her or hated her for it.

The policeman knocked on the door. I glanced down at my hands. If I scrubbed any harder the skin would begin to peel. My feet moved from the sink while my eyes remained on my reflection. In it I saw a shadow of my sister. Her jet black hair, her almond eyes, and her dark skin. Around me, I could still hear the echoes of the celebration. I could feel the humidity of the air. My boyfriend was at my side, a faint smile on his lips as he watched the other couples dance.

"In a few years, this could be our wedding," he said, his breath tickling my ear. His arm was around the back of my chair, something he did whenever we were seated beside one another. I liked the action. It was like his arm was forming a hedge of protection around me. Nothing could get in unless he let it and I was confident he would never let anything harm me.

I pursed my lips. "Please tell me you'll at least dance at that one."

"Mickey," he sat up then, widening his eyes and pressing his fingers to his thumbs to emphasize every word. "I promise you, I would be tearing up that dance floor right now if it weren't for the tear in my pants."

I giggled, holding his chin in my hand to stare into his eyes. Darren couldn't lie to save his life. The second he tried those olive colored orbs in his head would dart around to find the nearest exit. This time, they didn't flinch under my gaze.

I felt his skin tug upwards underneath my hands as he smiled. "You just want to see me humiliate myself in front of all these people."

A quick survey around the room revealed everyone was lost in their own worlds. It was late enough into the night for people to have broken the ice between each other. Family members who hadn't seen one another in ages were catching each other up on the last ten years of their lives, the bartender had a list of people who had far too much to drink already, and yet my sister still hadn't made the rounds to greet everyone in attendance.