The two men stared over at the dilapidated house, it’s lawn two feet high.
McHenry pushed open the car door.
Lowry grabbed his jacket, held him in place. ‘Where the fuck are you going?’
‘The fucker’s guilty. I know it. You know it. The whole fucking community knows it.’
‘Gut instinct and rumour is not the same as knowing.’
‘The fucker did it. And he’ll do it again if we don’t stop him.’
‘And we will, but we’re cops not a lynch mob.’
‘So we just wait until he kills again?’
‘No. We find some evidence, then we lynch him.’
A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words