Ruled a Suicide

After breaking into a home for food, homeless single mother Ellie Blackwood stares at the dead homeowner lying under a Christmas tree. She's trying to remain anonymous, but knows she's also seen the murderer.

She and her half Native American daughter are almost at the end of their rope. Ellie could sell her information to make money to eat, but she'll pay a steep price if the U.S. government finds out.

Excerpt

I couldn't breathe. I had to remain anonymous.

My heart fluttered to what felt like a stop as I stared at the dead man in front of me. The body positioned under the Christmas tree oozed blood all over the carpeted floor near his feet, while the dead man's right hand held a gun. Upon closer inspection, I recognized him as the owner to the house. The picture window for the room would allow anyone walking on the street to look inside, but they may not see the body behind the tree.

As I gazed at the full length of the body, I noticed a note tied to the dead man's leg by a red bow. 'He got too close and others will pay,' it read in big black letters. The bow was clean of blood, as was the white note. It must have been tied after he'd died or there would've been blood splatter on the note near most of the other blood, I'd surmise.

My stomach fell, realizing what was in front of me. This man had been murdered, because no one could write a note for themselves then tie it after they died. Besides that, most of the blood was near the guy's feet and not near his head, unless it'd bled out underneath. Regardless, that was some impossible feat.

To think I was standing at the murder scene caused me to panic.

I was in deep trouble if my fingerprints were anywhere in the house. I had to get out, because I'd sort of broken in and would be a prime suspect, if they had my prints on file. I didn't think anyone did, but from my past, someone could've gotten them from anywhere, just in case.

I'd been so sure the place was empty before I entered the home, strolling right past the body without noticing. It didn't even strike me as odd that the tree lights and a small lamp were on, yet no one was home. The murderer must've been the person leaving the house before I came inside. It wasn't the owner, like I'd surmised, because he was dead on the floor.

The hair stood up on the back of my neck. I was a witness and the cops would want to talk to me, even if they ruled me out as a suspect.

I didn't want to be found. I couldn't be found. My life and the life of my daughter depended on it.

A loaf of bread and a bottle of cold medicine in my hand reminded me of my true mission. I ran to the door, covered my empty hand with my torn sleeve, and wiped the doorknob clean. It wasn't the same door the killer had gone through, so I didn't feel too badly for damaging fingerprints.

I racked my brain, trying to remember. Did I touch anything else in the house?

The medicine cabinet and the breadbox.

I ran to the bathroom and wiped the mirrored cabinet door clean, then headed into the kitchen and did the same for the breadbox. When I was satisfied my fingerprints were gone, I left by the side door, wiped the outside doorknob and edge of the door, and searched for witnesses. No one was nearby, so I ran to the curb and waited for two cars to pass. As soon as it was safe, I crossed the road and approached my young daughter, Kaya, sitting on an old couch in an alley.

Yes, we were two of the many homeless in Phoenix.

"Mama, is that you?" She was my three-year old half-Navajo daughter. In the darkness of the night in the alleyway, I could barely make out her dark tan skin, black hair, and blue eyes. She got the blue eyes from me, as odd as that sounded, but she didn't get my blonde hair.

"Yes, Kaya, it's me. I have to make a phone call. Can you stay here for a minute?"

She coughed and sneezed, wiping her nose on her sleeve. "Sure."

I handed her the loaf of bread and dug deep into the cushions of the couch, searching for one of my only possessions, my change purse. Once found, I opened it, able to see only coins, and retrieved enough change to call the police if the operator required it. There was still a phone box close to our couch home, which was probably one of the only ones left in the state.

Kaya dug into the bread, sniffled a little as she ate, and coughed again. I grabbed an almost empty jug of water and tipped it to her mouth. She was sick, the poor thing, and it was winter. Even though it was the Southwest, the nights were cold for homeless people.

I kissed her forehead and walked around the corner, lit by the streetlamp, while keeping a vigil for anyone nearby. After depositing some coins, I dialed for help with my threadbare sleeve over my hand.

"Emergency," some woman said. "How can I help you?"

I lowered my voice as much as I could. "I'm at 2105 Puma Street. I was out for a walk and saw a dead guy under a Christmas tree in his front living room." I looked around yet again. I was still alone.

"What's your name?" the woman asked.

"I don't want involved." I hung up the phone and checked to see if any change returned. It didn't, which was the story of my life. I sighed, knowing I'd spent some of my last bit of money, with barely enough cash left to buy clean drinking water. Maybe tomorrow would be a better begging day.

I ran back to Kaya, who'd eaten all but three of the pieces of bread. While guessing at the amount she needed for her weight, I poured some of the medication into the attached plastic cup and made her drink it, along with a sip of water.

"Yucky," she said, grimacing.

"You need it. We're going to get you better then we can figure out where to go next. I don't think this is a safe place anymore."

"Why?"

"No reason you need to worry about." I sat down, pulled her to my lap, and covered her with the one blanket we'd saved. "Now get some sleep."

"Thanks, Mama."

I kissed her forehead. Thinking back to what I'd just seen, I had to stay calm, but the terror of it all made me shake on the inside. If the killer saw me, he might return. There was no way I'd be able to sleep. I had to protect Kaya and myself.

Every night, I prayed we'd find a way out of the current mess, but every morning, the full weight of being homeless hit me square in the face when the sun came up.

As I looked up, a dark figure walked toward us, making my heart race. However, I could tell from the way the person threw their hips that it was a friend and not the murderer. Killers didn't wear skimpy clothes like this person.

"Hey, Louise," I said. The sirens sounded from a distance, but I tried to ignore it.

"Hey, Ellie. Anything new?"

"Yep." I tried not to sound scared and didn't want to alert Kaya, so I spelled it out. "A D-E-A-D B-O-D-Y is in that house over there." I pointed, almost able to make out Louise's surprise in the darkness of the alley.