Then, by accident, he knocked over the clock on the bedside table—a clock that had stood witness to Doris’ death. The time was critical. He was not as nimble as he thought, his days were numbered and his usefulness would soon be eclipsed by his superiors.
He didn’t hesitate to replace it, not realizing it had stopped and it had recorded the time of Doris’ last moment on earth. The frame-up needed perfection, and for that, he had to be meticulous. The clock, now back in place, he didn’t notice it not ticking away the lie he was weaving, and without another glance and with a swift motion, he turned his attention to Doris’ window—the ground-floor exit, the one no one would suspect. He slid it open, careful to leave no trace, and stepped onto the rain-slicked street below and melted into the night. He was a ghost, and the night was his cloak.
