They found her in the garden, clothing torn to bits, blood everywhere. Her fingers clasped bits of hair, probably belonging to her torturer. Scratch marks in the sand told of her struggle to escape. Her body was tattered with bruises and cuts, and she shivered.
Suddenly, she sat up and cried out. “Under the Wooden Roses, that’s where he lay!”
The officers scoured the garden, not one rose in sight. All of a sudden, one of the officers realized that there was a rose, upstairs in the bedroom.
There, under a hand carved chandelier they found him, dead.
This is my entry into this week’s Friday Fictioneers. Click on the link for more stories.