Jen's Revenge

Jen Edwards stared out her window. Her mother sat downstairs, probably cooking some kind of inedible food, which was most likely either uncooked or burnt. She took a deep, steady breath. It was now or never.

With a swift movement of her hand, Jen reached for the window's lock, hoping to not disturb anyone. "Steady, now, steady," she whispered. Her long blonde hair fell over her shoulders, but she didn't bother to move it. There was not enough time.

Slowly, the plan ran through her head. It was hidden, that was certain. There was nothing she could do about it. The world would never find out, unless the victim spoke. Ha. Like that would happen.

So, with ease, young Jen Edwards opened the window, as she felt the cool breeze hit her lightly. It seemed to call out for her. Jen felt tears well up in her eyes. Was she really going to risk her life for the chance to escape?

Jen didn't have time to answer, because by the time she thought about it, she felt two cold hands hit her square in the chest, and as she fell off the second story house, she realized just who had pushed her…

...

Dan Miller wasn't an ordinary cop. Sure, he stopped for a donut once in a while at the local coffee shop. But he was different. The police chief had never been called to a scene without leaving successful. But this time was different. They had to find the killer.

So, the fifty year old police chief drove up to the house, smacking his lips in that annoying way the crew hated so much. "What's seems to be problem, Mrs.?" He asked. Mrs. Edwards, Jen's mother, stood sobbing, "M ~m ~my daughter, Jen.. Sh ~she is d ~dead!" Her puffy red eyes stared straight at Dan Miller.

"Mm hmm." He replied, smacking his lips, "take me to the scene of that there crime, Miss." Mrs. Edwards sobbed into a tissue, crying out, "Why? Why? Why Jen?" That seemed to be the question on everyone's mind.

Dan Miller was led to the scene of the crime; the Edwards's front yard. Dan Miller, who was a large fellow, rubbed his pot belly, not showing a lick of emotion. His assistant, who had recently moved from New York to this small Kentucky town, followed him anxiously. "Sir, Mr. Miller," asked the assistant, cringing as he spotted the body of the teen, who was face down in the dirt, "What happened?"

The police man shrugged, with a contentment as he stretched his arms. "I reckon she fell," he announced. His beard twitched as he spoke. "She most likely jumped. Case solved. Let's all go home."

The assistant, Jim, muttered, "What? That's not a fair analysis!" Dan looked at Jim as if he proclaimed Thanksgiving was going to be canceled. And that was saying something. Dan loved Thanksgiving. "What in Sam's name are you doing, boy?" He shouted.

Jim muttered something inaudible, then said, "This girl was murdered…" Dan rolled his eyes, then sighed, "The doctors and thangs is coming soon, boy, so you better go home." His thick country accent made Jim want to scream, but he kept his mouth shut.

"Yessir," Jim replied, "I will, but I have some business to attend to first."