by Jason Starr
Adam flicked on the light, relieved to see that the guy, wearing a black ski mask, was crumpled at the bottom landing, not moving at all. He headed downstairs, going slowly, not taking his eyes off the guy’s body.
As Adam got closer, he could tell that the guy had darkish skin, looked Latino, maybe Puerto Rican. His chest and face were a bloody mess, there was a big hole and oozing blood and gray stuff where his left eye used to be, and a big chunk of his jaw was gone.
Adam stared at the body for a while, trying to process what he’d done.
He’d shot a man. He’d shot and killed a man.
Then he looked toward the guy’s right hand. There was a flashlight two stairs above the guy’s head, but Adam didn’t see any gun. There was no gun on the staircase or on the bottom of the stairwell either. Maybe the guy had fallen on it and it was under his body.
Adam remained, staring at the man he’d killed in a daze, until the police started banging on the front door.
