Chloe Babineaux Private Investigator

by Lisa Clancey

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  I drove to a house belonging to Jason Tamereaux. I wonder if he was the son of the man that was killed. Could be his nephew. Great. This was going to be fun.

  The house was a nice gray, brick single-story house. A silver truck was parked out front with a minivan and an electrician’s work truck in the driveway.

  Good, someone was home. A man walked out the front door, so I started up the walk.

   “Jason Tamereaux?” I called. The man looked up with a ‘do I know you?’ look on his face.

  The silver truck had something sticking out the window. What is that? I heard a huge blast. Oh my God! He’s shooting! He’s shooting at Jason! “Get down, get down!” I shouted.

  I yelled over and over, but Jason stood there transfixed. I took off running in a crouch. What was I doing? He could shoot me! Run, just run and stay down. The shooter was shooting at Jason, not me. I felt the pull of my sweater. “Ahh!” Now he was shooting at me. I was a few steps from Jason when I vaulted and knocked him down. My head jerked to the side, and it hurt. Everything went to slow motion and faded to black.