Staying Alive by Debra Webb

night. Her sister had been screaming and crying, begging Claire to stop him before he hurt the baby. He’d broken in through the back door, forcing Claire and her sister to hide in the bedroom. There was no place left to run. The police had been called but they would never get there in time. One of the downfalls to country living.
    Tad Farmer, her no-good brother-in-law, hadpounded and kicked until he’d succeeded in knocking in the bedroom door. The handgun he’d waved at her sister had terrified Claire. She had known this time would be different from all the others. He had beaten her sister numerous times, but this time he planned to kill her because she refused to go back to him.
    When he’d rushed her sister, Claire had stepped into his path. They had struggled…somehow the weapon had gone off. Maybe he’d been trying to shoot her or maybe it had been an accident. The bullet had entered his torso at an upward angle just below his rib cage, glanced off a rib and torn straight through his heart. He’d died within two or three minutes. Claire had still been on her knees, attempting CPR on the jerk when the police stormed the house.
    Her sister had gone into premature labor and had had to be rushed to the hospital.
    The world changed for Claire at that moment. She’d lost everything that mattered to her.
    And now she had killed again.
    She pushed the memories away.
    Looking back like this was a mistake. She never allowed herself to do that, she shouldn’t now. It was too painful.
    Sitting here watching the news was only going to encourage wallowing in self-pity. The policewere outside keeping guard. She needn’t worry about her safety. The best thing she could do was occupy herself with something constructive.
    Claire got up and surveyed her living room. She usually waited until Saturday to clean house. Last weekend she’d planted flowers instead. Might as well get it done today. She was home. Who knew what she’d be doing on Saturday? Though she assumed Mr. Allen’s memorial service would be held before then, she couldn’t be sure.
    After putting her cup away and shutting off the coffee machine, she pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a Seattle Seahawks T-shirt. She bunched her hair into a ponytail and gathered her cleaning supplies.
    It wasn’t even nine, she had the whole day ahead of her. The fact that heavy-duty housework burned some serious calories was not lost on her. Five more pounds and she would be able to get back into her favorite size-twelve regular-fit jeans without holding her breath.
    Fully motivated now, she quickly laid out a strategy, then launched her attack.
    By noon her little bungalow shone, from the glossy hardwood floors to the sleek tile countertops. She had to admit that the hard word had done the trick. As exhausted as she was, she felt comfortablyrelaxed. A quick shower and change, and she was ready to move on to papers that needed to be graded.
    First, however, she needed to have lunch. She’d skipped breakfast, not on purpose but because for once she actually had no appetite. But after her rigorous cleaning frenzy she was ready to refuel.
    The telephone rang as she made her way to the kitchen. She grabbed it en route. “Hello.”
    “Are you okay?” Darlene said, her voice frantic. “I saw the news this morning. Are the police watching your house? Oh, my God, this is terrible, Claire. I’m coming over.”
    In spite of the whole mess Claire had to smile. It was nice to be loved. “Yes, I’m okay. I saw the news, too, and the police are watching my house. Come over and we’ll have lunch.” She surveyed the offerings in her fridge. “I was about to prepare a chef salad. You know you love my salads.”
    Her salads included pretty much everything but the kitchen sink: pineapple and walnuts to boot.
    “Sounds great,” Darlene enthused, “but I’ll bring my own salad dressing.”
    Claire harrumphed. “Fat-free doesn’t mean taste-free.”
    “Oh, yes it does,” Darlene