The First Family

     After shaking off Friday's hangover, we finally got on our way to the first family's home. It was just outside of Chicago  There were a bunch of other names in Chicago, but they all came with obituaries. We were very tense on the way over to the house, neither of us sure what we were going to learn, who was behind all of this mess, or what it was all about.
     The house was tiny, a little suburban home in the back of a culdesac. The house shared a floor plan with more or less half of the neighborhood. The car was in the driveway, but none of the lights were on inside. We didn't know how to approach the matter. I had my pistol in my pocket, and Silas had a small gun with him as well. We stood awkwardly outside the door as I rang the doorbell. We waited for a long while before Silas knocked, impatiently.

We waited.

Then we waited some more.

Then Silas decided to try the doorknob, and the door swung wide open.

Three people lay on the living room floor. I will never forget their faces. A mother, thin, beautiful, vacant in the eyes. Her husband, laying across her legs, tears dried on his cheeks. Their daughter, maybe eight years old, thrown on her back, folded over the coffee table. All three of them had narrow bruises across their throats, where someone had strangled them with a wire.

Vomit welled up in my throat, and I choked it back down, as Silas drew his pistol, and began to search the house. I followed after him, room by room, looking for anything, or anyone, but the house was empty. We decided there was nothing for us to do but leave.
I should say, I decided that. Silas was silent. I could see that rage building in him again, and I knew we wouldn't be talking for another day. I placed my hand on the front door to leave, when the spotlight hit the window, and we heard the police shout out at us.