Paranoia

Larry O’Donnell’s fingers tap on the windowsill. He’s been standing there for the past three hours staring at the darkness outside—which, come to think of it, isn’t as dark as the room he’s in. Must be the streetlights, he thinks. Or maybe the stars. His left hand, sweaty, rests on the empty gun that hangs from his belt.

Rain hammers the window in front of his face, and the noise it makes when it hits the glass really sounds like laughter. Can’t be the stars, he concludes after a while. It’s fucking raining. You can’t see the stars when it rains. He taps on the windowsill even faster, tense, as lightning strikes outside, mocking him, reminding him of police sirens.

Larry turns his head around and his eyes fix on the detective, sitting quiet and motionless on the armchair behind him. “What do you think?” he asks with a shaky voice.

The detective smiles creepily and snarls, “They’ll catch you, you moron! It’s just a matter of time.”

As the man’s laughter fills the room, Larry turns his attention back to the window, frowning. What does he know anyway? He’s only a corpse.