The image was burned into her memory as clear as a photo. The coffee-cup motif with the address above it. Of course she remembered it sideways, viewed as she lay on the floor with consciousness slipping away. She knew that was where he had died, where he’d been killed. Thanks to the bullet in her brain she couldn’t remember anything else – not his name, or her own for that matter. But that was enough, a place to start her hunt; she would find them and make them pay. But first she had to get the IV out of her arm.
Friday Fictioneers 100 words