The Accusation

The knife glinted in the dim light of the gas station’s back room, a smear of dried blood caked along the blade. Chris held it out, arm rigid, eyes fixed on Monta. The man’s face had gone the color of old bone, sweat beading on his brow despite the chill in the air.

“This was in your bag,” Chris said, his voice flat, controlled. “Under your bedroll. Wrapped in a rag.”

Monta’s hands flew up, palms out, fingers trembling. “No, no, I swear. I’ve never seen that thing before. Someone put it there.”