I slump against the doorjamb. “A-A-Are you sure it’s my husband?”
“His head’s missing, but we identified him from his fingerprints.”
Tears stream down my face.
“Do you have someone to sit with?”
“My son. I’d better check on him."
As the patrol car pulls away, I lock the door, then stroll towards the dining table.
“Finally!” says my son. “Can we eat now?”
I pick up the bone saw. “Absolutely. But I call dibs on the frontal lobe.”
Pouting, my son says, “you always get the tasty parts.”