Blood Money

It was a Friday when it happened, early in the morning before the outer lights had really turned up for the day. Beth was in the kitchen preparing a breakfast of potato pancakes and bacon. As the thin strips of pork sizzled in the pan, she set the table, dressed it for two. At one end of the table; a large plate, shiny silverware, and a tall glass of orange juice with a mug of steaming coffee beside it. On the other, a little plastic plate, of red and pink, with a small white glass off to the side. Written on the side of the cup in practiced cursive, was the name of her daughter, Penelope.

Once the food had been served and the grease was popping in the empty pan, Beth turned to face the front hallway, expecting Penelope to be walking in at any moment, drawn out of bed by the smell of breakfast. But she didn’t, nor could Beth hear any sounds of her impending arrival, just the small fan above the stove whirring away the last of the steam. It wasn’t like her daughter to be late and the longer the hallway remained empty, the more concerned she became and the closer she inched towards the stairs. It wasn’t until she had placed her foot on the first step that she heard the soft sobbing.

Beth bounded quickly up the stairs, taking them two or three at a time, spurred along by her maternal instinct. The crying was coming from the bathroom and she ran to it quickly, tapping on the door.