Don't write if you don't want it read.

I threw down my notebook and pen as though they would bite me.

Am I nuts, writing again?

I was just trying to write what I remembered, but then Marlene’s mother had picked up my notebook at the funeral, and read it. Holy crap. She screamed at me in front of a hundred mourners. She accused me of trying to make money from my darling’s death. Then, worst of all, she gave the notebook to one of the detectives stationed at the door.

Great. Now I’m “a person of interest,” a polite way of saying a suspect.

I did get to her first, and saw the knife slashes to her face, and the stab wounds to her chest and stomach. Her blood was all over me because I had held her. I told them that.

They questioned me for hours. Three teams of two. They wouldn’t let me eat or go to the bathroom. I still don’t think they believed that I saw someone running away. They asked if the person was tall or short, man or woman. I wish I’d paid more attention, but my darling was all that mattered at the time.

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