Rachel Loden


A luminous path of blood led from the kitchen
to the basement steps. The time of Ms. F's

death. The time the Fed Ex
driver knocked on the door. Her head

was on the landing next to a brass ship's bell.
He said he drove to a vacant lot on Sneath

Lane in San Bruno. It seemed the victim
had been sitting at the table when she died.

Her legs extended up the stairwell. Mr. F
could not explain the bloody shoes and towel

in his Suburban. He claimed the front door
was ajar. He called her name, "Christine."