I cooked when I was nervous. The smell of freshly baked bread or warm chocolate chip cookies relaxed me. Not anymore. I’ll never be able to cook away the memories of tonight. I crept down the creaky stairs, a small black handgun clutched tightly in my sweaty palm. The sound of my own heartbeat echoed around the high ceilinged wall as I made my way to the door. The body lay next to the river. The once blue water turned a sluggish reddy-pink with blood. I looked down to see the blood on my own hands. My brother’s blood.