Chan gathered himself in the corridor outside Conrad Jones’s room. Now he would have to tell him about his son’s death. One of the officers guarding Jones opened the door for Chan.
Jones, the swelling of his eyes having subsided, saw Chan and said, “David, my wife told me about Cal. It’s all my fault.”
Chan, again irritated with himself for a feeling of relief at not having to break the news, said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Jones. I just couldn’t get to him in time.”
Jones wiped away tears. “No matter, David. I’m the one who told them where Cal was. I’ll never forgive myself.”
“Mr. Jones, these men, you said they wore masks. Can you tell me anything more about them?”
Jones hesitated. “I think they were local. Other than that, I, I can’t say.”
There was something about the way he said this that piqued Chan’s interest.
“Why do you say that? What makes you think they’re local?”
“Maybe their voices.”
“Pidgin? Accents? Please Mr. Jones, can you be more specific.”
Jones looked directly at him. “I’m sorry, David, that’s all I can tell you.”
Chan stared into the man’s eyes and his heart nearly broke. He knew Jones was lying.
* * * * *
Aloha #WriterWednesday. Today’s #WritingPrompt is
Use it to inspire a piece of writing, and then post that piece on your site and link to me, or simply leave it as a comment below. I would love to read it : )