Forensic Files

Yesterday morning, I had three very specific errands in mind: getting Fynn's hair cut, returning some shoes to Target, and getting Fynn's shoes at the mall. The three places are all within blocks of each other, so I was trying to get it all done at once. I was already on my way when I called for the hair appointment, but they were booked until 12:40. It was only about 10:00, so I had some time to kill. Try as I might, I could not kill enough time, and I needed to go home and get my camera. Since time was going to be limited after I ran back home, I decided to use my little bit of cash from Target to get Sonic for me and Ewan. It would be quick, and Fynn could eat some little tidbits from home.

Now, I'm no shrinking violet. Even though Bryce doesn't always like it when I spend money on takeout, I'm usually pretty "so what?" about it. I think he's learned to accept it, even though he still fusses about it a little. And it's not as if I do it very often, but yesterday was hectic, and I didn't feel like listening to him gripe. (And that's all it is, griping, I don't mean to make it sound like he is a tyrant or mean.) The boys and I ate in a hurry, then scampered off to the hair place, and when I got back, it looked like a poor, innocent little Sonic restaurant had been disemboweled on my kitchen table. So I made sure I removed all traces of our lunch from the kitchen. I was meticulous in the removing of evidence. I put Ewan's kids meal toy away out of sight, threw the straws away deep in the trash with the bags and cup. I checked and double checked to make sure there was nothing that would give me away. I knew he'd find out anyway, but again, avoiding confrontation here.

So that evening, all was well in our little land, we were about to sit down to dinner and Bryce was helping me set the table. All the sudden he says, "A French fry?! Where did this come from?" And he looked at me, grinning. I was caught. In Ewan's chair, there was one single, lonely little yellow French fry, shouting my sin to the world. I mean, how lame! All that cover-up and I was given away by a cold, shriveled potato substitute?

As Bryce and I laughed over the whole thing later, we determined that we could never commit real crime. All the little things to watch out for, all that evidence just waiting to be discovered. I think it's safe to say that I won't ever attempt the perfect murder. I might leave behind a glove or something.