The wind howled round the lighthouse.
Jackson looked up at the bright beam as it circled round, shielding his eyes from the driving rain.
Satisfied that all was in order he went back inside. He took off his soaked oilskin jacket and walked up the staircase to his bed.
The relief wouldn’t be able to get through the storm tonight with the waves battering the cliffs.
The forecast on the radio predicted it would last well into the next week. That was good. That gave him some more time.
He went over the story in his head again, lying on the bed, wrapping the sheets around him to keep warm.
He had no idea how Billy had slipped. Jackson had heard the scream and a sickening thud. He had looked over the edge of the cliff and was sure he had seen a body being tossed in the waves. Jackson had scrambled down the rocks, but there was no sign of Billy.
That would work if he stuck to his story. There was no one to contradict it. So long as Billy’s body did stay anchored to the seabed. Then no one would see the bullet wound in his forehead.
Written as part of Sunday Photo Fiction. Write a story of around 200 words based on the photo prompt given (above). Hosted by Susan Spaulding. For more details visit HERE.
To read more of the stories based on this week’s prompt, visit HERE.