Most stories begin with a beginning. This one begins with an ending.

Jamison was dead. Blood had leaked out of the bullet hole in the side of his head and formed a tacky pool on the hardwood. His eyes were still wide with the shock of his final moment.

Footsteps echoed in the next room, dominating the eeriness of dead silence. A man stepped through the french doors leading into Jamison’s office wearing dark cargo pants, black boots, an untucked polo and white surgical gloves.

He slipped the Keltec semi-auto into his right pocket, where a discrete nylon holster held it securely against his leg. In his left hand, he held a CD in a transparent blue case.

“Dammit Jamie.” he breathed somberly, locking gazes with the corpse. “Dammit.”

The man turned on his heel and strode quickly down the hall, his thunderous footfalls fading with the distance. The sound of a door opening and shutting dropped the house into silence again.

Hours later, that quiet was disturbed again by a woman’s mournful screams.