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Emily was a morning person. There was nothing she liked better than the birth of a new day. To watch the vapour trails holiday planes left in the sky…Mug of tea in hand, she opened the door, eager to breathe in the fresh unsullied air while she drank her first cuppa of the day.  She gave a little oomph of dismay when her breath misted in front of her face and her arms rippled with gooselumps.
Steam rose from her mug to fog her glasses.
“Shut that ruddy door,” her father bellowed from the kitchen. “Letting all the hot out. Getting older hasn’t made you wiser, that’s for sure!”
She hurriedly backed into the house and closed the door.
“Sorry, Dad,” she muttered, counting to ten under her breath.
“Are you going to let breakfast go cold, after all the trouble I’ve gone to?” he called.
“Sorry, Dad,” she said again, sidling into the kitchen to take her place at the table.
He humphed in reply, folded the morning paper to the Sports page, propped it on the sauce bottle, and left her to her thoughts…
Which weren’t happy ones. It had been a mistake to ask him to stay with her while her mother was in hospital…a big mistake. Her poor mother had sadly passed away—Emily’s eyes welled with tears, but her father was still here, six months on.
Every day he cooked a full-English breakfast; doing his bit, he called it, pulling his weight.
She called it driving her mad.
Once she had hinted that he should tidy the kitchen after his cooking spree. He’d waved a dismissive hand over the clutter of pans and dishes. ‘That’s your mother’s job,’ he had told her. ‘She likes looking after me…’ He hadn’t appeared to realise that this wasn’t going to happen…
Poor old Dad, Emily thought, clinging to the past…She must be patient. Grief took people different ways…but she hadn’t expected to be treated like a child in her own house, that was for sure. She was sixty-two next week, dammit! Things had got to change—
Grief….Was that why she had developed a thirst for murder mysteries?
Reading book after book after book…
Was she subconsciously seeking a way out?
She stole glance at her father.
A fool-proof way of…disposal—

Copyright © 2018 Betty Woodcock