London’s Victims
He looked at her, taken aback. His young wife he'd won in a card game stood before him, looking him in the eyes. Though he had blackened them many times, he hadn't looked in her eyes in the ten months they'd been together. They were blue and tears were clouding them. He didn't even know Indian women had blue eyes. Behind him, he could see his daughter staring at him from her aunt's arms. She had his thin nose and his broad forehead which was muddled with wisps of hair stuck to her face. She was sucking her thumb, watching him. He couldn't believe he had tried to make her get rid of her. She was the best thing that he had ever done and he wanted her dead.
"What's her name?" he murmured.
"What?"
"Our daughter. What's her name?"
"Anjali," his sister replied.
He tried to say it, stumbling miserably. "Pretty," he whispered. "May I hold her?"
"No!" Sammi screamed, pushing him outside. "You may never come near me or these kids ever again!"
Before he could say anything, the door had slammed on him. He couldn't blame her. They all had suffered his abuse for years. He knew they couldn't invite a man who destroyed everything he touched into that baby's life. He'd kill her. He walked back to his truck and reached in the glove compartment. There was a pistol, which he pulled out and loaded, along with a notebook. He knew what he had to do. Ten minutes later, the police would be called, stating they'd just heard gun shots. but it would be too late. London Parker would be dead.