April 23rd, his mother’s birthday. A large picture window looked out over the land and buildings that were all he had left from his family. Sitting at his father’s favorite rocker, he picked up the pistol that he had placed on the top of an end table. His dog, a white terrier named Baylor, sat on the floor staring intently, unsure of what game they were fixing to play. He reached a calloused hand and picked up the pistol, slowly thumbing back the hammer. Suddenly he heard barking and a crash; an explosion rocked his hand and something hit him in the side. As he lost consciousness, he felt Baylor futilely pulling on his pant leg, trying to drag him to safety.
MURDER IN BELLA RIDGE
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