I set the pink gingham suitcase on the orange carpet near the bed, and put the dented blue pot next to it. I don’t know why I brought it, it was stupid. Who thinks to take a pot at a time like this? Why did I leave the damn strainer? The knife is still tucked into the waistband of my jeans, but it’s not cutting me.

God, God, I can’t even think anymore, I have to lean against the bed. He got real mad tonight when I slid down behind the counter as he came in, so I knew he’d been drinking. I gingerly reach up to touch under my eye, but the cut’s not bleeding anymore. My tongue goes to explore the space where the tooth was an hour before.

I grab my rosary out of my blouse pocket, and say a few prayers for Mike, then a few more for me. I pick up the phone, beige and clunky. I spin to 0 for the hotel staff, “Hello, this is Terese D’Angelo in room 12, I need to speak to the police.”

“If you’ll just call 9, then 9-”

“No, in person.” My voice isn’t shaking…

“Why, Ms. D’Angelo?”

“I-I’ve killed him.”