The Perfect Murder

When something so innocent takes a sharp, unexpected turn.

Ruth-Ann got what was coming to her. She deserved it all, every ounce of the karma dished out. She didn’t see it coming, but boy was it a good show. So good, in fact, I’m willing to share it. So sit back, relax, and shh.

It all started one fateful rainy day. Cliche, I know, but also so very poetic. The angels cried that day, on more than one occasion. It’s like they knew I’d find out. I felt them staring down on me through puffs of charcoaled white, taking pity on my poor soul. Naive, and completely oblivious to the fact my life was about to fall apart, I relished in the rain. It felt so good, letting it run over my skin and cotton clothes. Head tilted back, eyes closed, my chest heaved deep and slow for a long, drawled inhale. The fragrance of damp asphalt and grass flooded my senses, reminding me of my childhood days spent at my grandfather’s house. I used to run in the puddles barefoot. I did so then, too, after slipping my black pumps off and hooking manicured nails in the heels. Twirling with the motions of my physique, the black cocktail dress I wore to work that day turned with me. There was a grin on my lips, joy in my heart.

I had gotten off work early that day, simply because it had started to rain. I’m basically my own boss, and half the company couldn’t run without me, so what I say, normally goes. And what I said was I’m going, so I did. A little shamelessly, to be honest, but why not take half a day to enjoy one of life’s many small pleasures. Especially when all you do is work, work work. I’m surprised my husband stayed with me for as long as he did, if I’m being fair. We’ve only been married for about a decade, but it seems so much older, our relationship. It was wonderful at the beginning. We were in love, without a doubt. We would have bred like rabbits if it wasn’t for me being barren. Maybe it’s a good thing I couldn’t have children. We would have gone through a small fortune just in condoms and contraceptives, or we’d have at least a dozen kids and I’d be six feet under from all the pregnancies. Well, we used to be like that, before I buckled down at work and started working 14 hour days, nearly 7 days a week. He worked part time at the Garage.

I hadn’t told him I’d be home early. It was one of his days off, and I knew it. I was going to surprise him when I got home. He’d been begging for something fun or interesting in our love-life. I thought this would be spontaneous enough. Boy was I wrong. What was actually spontaneous wasn’t me coming home, but someone else being in our home, in our room, in our bed, with MY husband. Oh I was hot, when I walked inside, heard a thud upstairs, went upstairs slowly to sneak up on him, only to hear the bimbo giggle inside the bedroom, behind the closed door. I recognized the giggle too. It was her. The same hoe who had been after my job for years now. She was the reason I worked so hard now, to stay on top and protect what mattered. She was a constant threat, because she was the competitor. She wasn’t a fair threat that worked like me, through blood, sweat and tears. She was a dirty competitor, who played dirty little games like spreading rumors, playing tricks and so on. We had been partners once, when she had just finished her internship. She was so young, and bright, I was sucked in. Then I saw her true colors, and kicked her out. That wasn’t the last time I did that, you mark my words.

Anyway, I knew her stupid laughter. It was like nails on a chalkboard. I was calm though, as I climbed the stairs. For once I thanked my husband for choosing this house. I wanted the older one, with all the charm and character. He wanted something completely new, without a single scratch. How odd; the one who works in grease all day wants something pretty and spotless, and the one who wears prada and Gucci to work wanted something that held a story. I hated the house he picked, but on that fateful day I loved it, because he didn’t see it coming. He didn’t see me coming. Neither had any idea when I pressed my head to the door frame just outside their personal space.. In my personal space. Ugh. She’s in there, probably straddling him after a steamy round two in the late afternoon, grinning down at him while stroking his chest. I hear her talking, she’s excited. She’s talking to him, telling him how this was the best way to celebrate her newest conquest. She mentions how she triumphed over “that old hag” and that she can’t wait to see my expression when she tells me. Oh, she really can’t wait. She’s gonna wish she could have.

And just like that, my heart fell to my stomach. My husband wasn’t my own, and I feared my job wasn’t anymore either. Instead of letting it ruin me, however, I stood straight, dignified as ever, and walked to the den, where I sat. I sat and sat, staring forwards, arms on the arms of our lazy-boy. I didn’t cry. I didn’t yell. I didn’t move, not an inch. I knew what I had to do, what had to be done. I’d dreamt of it, wished on it. At times I had to keep from planning it, and doing it before the time was right. It was right, and she didn’t see it coming. Neither did. No one did. So I sat, until I heard their laughter get louder, shortly before there was a click when the bedroom door closed again.

I peeked from the den, and watched their shadows pass over, down the staircase. I took that as my chance, to walk into my room, a bottle of gasoline in hand. The den had a fireplace, and he was too dumb to start a fire without it, so I grabbed it. The gasoline was sprinkled over the bed, floor and dresser, but only after I slipped into my favorite little red dress, white gloves, a pearled sash and crimson pumps. I replaced diamonds with pearls, and slipped something from under the laced panties in the top drawer, something I’d never thought of using. I don’t light a match until I hear the door close. She was leaving, and so was I. I slipped out of the bedroom after tossing the blazing match at the bed. It took from the time I stepped into the den for the smoke alarm to go off. By the time my husband got to the room I had made my way out the back door, and into the alleyway that lead to my parked fancy new Cadillac. Climbing inside and starting it, the pretty little object in my right hand still held tight at the hilt.

I knew the way she went home. It was a few miles away, and she always took the long way. It’s the only way the subway went, and she hadn’t driven to my house. I knew the exact stops the subway took, and which was the closest to her house. I waited, again, in the dark of the tunnel, near the dim light of twilight. My husband would wonder where I am. Oh that’s right, he didn’t expect me to be off work yet. I often worked until nearly dusk, so he didn’t expect this, or anything for that matter. No one did, and it was perfect. The perfect night. And it was still raining.

She was the only one to get off the semi-decrepit subway. It wasn’t odd- not many rode it near these parts. Most people had cars of their own, and wouldn’t step foot near the subway. She did though, and stepped right into my awaiting silence. She had glanced down at her blackberry, at a message from my husband no doubt. She looked confused, and worried. While distracted, I slipped behind her. I may have been older by some years, but I was taller. Even more so in my heels. Dwarfed by me, she came to a gasping pause when I constricted one arm around her shoulders. Before she could put two and two together the tip of an elongated dagger plunged itself into her chest, piercing the heart with an exhilarating squish. Gaping, the w***e jolted, as pain surged from her heart to her head, and throughout her body. I had chuckled, loving the poetic justice of her bleeding, pained heart, just as I’d felt pain hours ago. I didn’t feel in the least sorry as her life drained from her body, just like the blood did. It really was the perfect night, for the perfect murder, of passion, hatred and vengeance. She never saw it coming, but I let her see my face. I let her see my expression as she drew her last breath, and died, right there at the edge of the tunnel.

I was very careful not get blood on me, so when the deed was done, I left the dagger in her chest and walked away, a grin on crimson lips. I walked, got back into my Cadillac, and drove until I reached my home, where flames had all but engulfed the ashes and half the kitchen. I walked towards the smoldering mess, but a police officer stopped me, and tried to sooth me while saying no one inside survived. Tears came to my eyes. Not in woe, but in happiness. He had been burned alive, eaten alive by the flames of my fury. How touching is that. Fury and vengeance, together forever in death. Til death do us part, darling. And how we did. Oh, how so. Quiet beautifully, if I do say so myself.

Ruth-Ann didn’t see it coming.

No one saw it coming.

They deserved it.

No one suspected.

It started raining again. I looked up, and smiled.

-Elizabeth Grey

With one last drag of the Marlboro cigarette, Elizabeth sits back in her desk chair, admiring her newest work of art. It’s displayed before herself, on the bright LED lit screen of her HP laptop. With the dying bud of the Marlboro between manicured fingers, those of her free hand caress a petite chin in thought. Her best work yet needed a title still. She stared at the screen, contemplating what to call it. Finally, she brightens with a grin, smashes the embers of the butt in a crystal ashtray and gives it the name it deserves. Once she does so, it’s submitted over to the Hallowborne Times, where it’ll be printed in tomorrow's short story column. Elizabeth had written others, one or two before. None had been in first person, though, so she wondered how the public would take the small change in her writing style. She hoped it would be refreshing. If anything, tolerable.

With a shrug at that last thought, Liz shuts her laptop’s lid and pushes the portable computer back. Simultaneously she pushed back in her chair, rolled over onto her queen sized bed after yanking the chain of her lamp and called it a night.

There’s a ringing. Dazed and confused from a much needed rest, Liz’ eyes flutter open to greet the glare of late morn. Grumbling, she turns over in her black sheets and shoves her face into the cooled surface of her pillow. Ringing again, she notices the buzzing her phone makes when it goes off. It’s her turn to glare, and the phone goes still for a breath, before going off again. It’s not an alarm- she disabled those before going to bed. Inching closer, she sees the name of her best friend, Jason Keating, flash on the screen, with the option to swipe left or right to answer or decline the 5th call to come through. She grumbled again, swiped right and clumsily held the phone to her reluctant ear.

“Bruh, it’s before noon o’clock. This better be good.” She said sleepily, and you could tell she’d been disturbed from a good slumber. She barely got the last word out before a handsome voice on the other end cut her off and shouted for her to get up and dressed. The line went dead, and a second later he came barging into her little studio apartment. Jerking upwards from the bed, Liz’ is wide eyed and confused as ever. Jason rushes to her closet, pulls out a pair of skinny jeans, sneakers, and a black dress shirt. He throws them at her bed, and claps in a way to hurry her along. She obeys in a blur and dresses while he smacks her tv remote, turning it on in the process.

She’s just gotten her shirt fully buttoned when the news lady she hates starts talking, reporting breaking news, about a woman who was shot after getting off a subway, not far from where Liz lives, which, for lack of better description, the artistic version of the slums. It’s borderline poverty, where artists and writers cluster together in these little apartment complexes. Some work two jobs, as freelancers, call center agents, chefs or shop owners. Liz knew one writer to double as a porn star. It was Lady Larvene, who lived upstairs. A nice lady, really.

The woman being reported on was a cute little blonde, not much older than Liz who was of the ripe age of 26. In a way the woman looked younger, with pretty blue eyes and a pixie like physique. Pixie is how Liz would have described her. Perky, full of life and laughter, but could be really annoying and bossy. She thought it was tragic that the girl died, but she was more worried about the fact her lifelong best friend thought it was big enough of a deal with wake her and storm in like the world was ending.

“Another chick was shot. That’s nothing new, Jason.” Liz put it mildly, and rolled her eyes while trying to fix her messy hair. Jason turns the TV up and demands she keep watching by jabbing his finger at the screen.

“And it’s just in, just hours after Ms. Ruth’s terrible demise that a post is printed in today’s paper. It looks to be a confession, by one named Elizabeth Grey. Authorities have yet to determine if this is indeed a confession to this heinous crime, and they are on the case as we speak. Whoever this Elizabeth Grey is, she better-” The TV screen pauses abruptly when Liz takes the remote and slams her thumb on the II button. Jason stares at her, and she stares at him, her face ghost white.

“What.. I didn’t write any kind of confession. There isn’t anything to confess to!” She shouts now, and throws the remote as if it had burned her. Jason sighs heavy, and takes her shoulders in his grasp so their gaze can meet.

“Liz, I know. Were you working on something for the paper though? A story?” He knew just about every detail of her life. She hid nothing from him, which is why he knew she hadn’t killed the Ruth girl. She would have told him, and had him help her hide the body. Liz nodded at his question, and swallowed.

“Yeah, I sent it over a day or so ago, at least 24 hours ago. It was for the column I’ve been submitting to, for short stories. I wrote one… oh god. Oh, oh god. No way..” Liz backed away, clearing freaking out now, shaking her head.

“I wrote a story about how this jealous, furious woman got revenge on her cheating husband and his lover by burning him/their house, and stabbing the lover, who was named Ruth-Ann. She was killed while leaving the subway. I wrote it in first person.” Speaking fast, Lix shuffled through some jackets she had, until she got to one of her favorite bomber jackets and slipped it on. Jason facepalmed himself with a groan, and sat on the ledge of her bed.

“Jesus, Jason. I named it The Perfect Murder. And signed my name on the corner so they knew the author. It was supposed to be in a column..”

“They must have misprinted, and made it a headlining story. Quick, what are the major differences, cause the similarities are...too much.”

“The short story was more of a..50’s or 60’s theme, where the murderer wore a red dress, heels, white gloves and a sash like scarf. She drove a Cadillac. I drive a 2013 Nissan Altima. And the woman was married, she burned her house down with the husband inside, and went after Ruth-Ann. She stabbed her, not shot her. This Ruth was shot in the subway tunnel. There aren’t any other details..except the rain..”

“Except this story, which looks like a crazy confession that’s really just gloating with your name on it, as the headlining. They even wrote “Murderer says all” under your title. Liz, people are going to know who you are. The feds are probably tracking you down as we speak.We need to get you out, now.”

“No, that’ll make me look guilty, Jason. I need to… I need to get the paper to correct the mistake. It’s their fault!”

“Oh, Liz. They aren’t going to do that. The media hates admitting their wrong, and this titanic of a mistake could put a pretty big dent in their reputation. Not to mention it could become a hairy situation for them. You really think they’ll admit they did wrong?”

“Yes. In fact, I know the woman who copies my stories into the paper. She’s in charge of the column. I’ll call her and request she fix it.”

Jason only sighs, because he knows what the column’s lady will say. Elizabeth hadn’t wasted any time in calling the woman she knows at the paper company, but she isn’t on the phone for very long. She ends the conversation why slamming the landline down on the hook, and plopping down next to Jason. He rubs her back soothing it. There’s a crack of thunder outside, causing neither to jump. Liz holds her head in her palms, leaning over, and rocking just a little. Jason’s quiet in contemplation while he tries to sooth her. She lifts her head, just as there’s a knock at her door. Both snap their attentions to it. Next, there isn’t a knock, but a bang, and a deep voice calls out, demanding Elizabeth Grey come out with her hands raised. Then they bang on the door again.

“Damnit, go ahead. Don’t say anything. Don’t look upset. If they ask questions, get a lawyer. You’re innocent but it’ll help to have someone on your side legally.” Jason rushes his words while gently pushing Liz up from the bed. He steers her towards the door, and then backs up to the window at the balcony. Liz nods to him quietly, knowing and understanding he can’t be caught with her. Not now. So when he dips out she yanks her door open, and a sea of men in black uniforms march into her apartment and surround her. Her hands are up, and head is down. One of the officers is still pretty rough when he grabs her arms, pulls them behind and fastens them together with cold, hard handcuffs. He shoves her forwards thereafter, making her stumble a little. She’s taken to the cruiser outside, where more officers await, with a growing crowd of bystanders and onlookers. They catch sight of the officers, then of Liz. Half cheer because they got her. The other half boos because they think she did it. Liz keeps her eyes off the crowd and officers. She doesn’t look up until she’s nearly thrown into the back seat of the car and the door’s slammed. Liz rights herself and stares at the rear view mirror.

Eventually the officer who cuffed her and his partner get in the car and manage to get through the still steadily growing crowd. They make it to the station without so much as a word to one another. Occasionally she watches the driver glance up at her in the rear view mirror. She can’t tell if he’s glaring behind aviator shades, or if he’s sizing her up. Either way, it didn’t stop her from staring back with a stoic gaze of her own.

When they reach the station there’s a new crowd of people. Some have cameras that keep flashing. Others are recording the whole transition on their smartphones. Liz still stays low. She doesn’t make any sudden movements. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t cry. She counts her steps as a way to distract herself from the painful rubbing of the cuffs. Someone spits on her when she walks by. Instead of the officer scolding the civilian he chuckles and shoves Liz on. Liz doesn’t bat an eye. She isn’t worried about her sneakers. The rain will wash it away.

Once inside Liz is temporarily placed in a cell, while two detectives and a police officer get the interrogation room ready for its latest victim. Liz breathes deep, steady breaths. She knows what’s coming, and she should be prepared. She’s written scenes like it, and watched shows like The Blacklist, and the Blindspot, and Criminal Minds. She’ll be asked questions, and drilled until she breaks or cries, or both. She stays calm, because she knows her innocence. She’s actually looking forward to it, because it gives her a chance to calmly explain what happened. And she knows without solid evidence that she did it, they can’t hold her there. She has a case, and she knows it. But before anything can happen they need to get a state issued lawyer because that was the only thing Liz said right after being pushed into the cell. She said just one word, and that was “Lawyer”.

When they get one in the room, two guards stand at the door, an officer sits at one end of the table and a detective sits on the other end, on the same side. That left the other side of Liz to sit at. She chose to sit so that the distance between her, the officer and detective were even. Her appointed lawyer stood behind her. She recognized him from somewhere when their eyes met. She couldn’t place it at first, then remembered Jason had a cousin who was a paralegal trying to become a lawyer. He may as well have been one, she’d seen him in action, so she wasn’t all that upset that he was there. Jason must have contact him the second he left and had him take the place of some mediocre lawyer the state was about to give her. Seeing him made her relax, because he was someone she knew. She needed that kind of comfort. Though, and still, she didn’t waver. Not once did she cry, cringe, complain or show disdain for her treatment. She didn’t look guilty, but rather, calm. Calm and collected. The calm before the storm.

“You’ve been awfully quiet this whole time, Ms. Grey. Would you care to enlighten us?” The officer, officer Douchebag as Liz mentally nicknamed him, speaks, with a raised brow at Liz. She shifts a stoic gaze from the detective to the officer.

“On what, exactly?” She speaks finally, ending her silence with a polite, steady tone. The detective watches her with gradual interest. She’s unlike any other criminal he’s interrogated. She’s more than calm, but serene. She’s almost comfortable, and completely confident. But she’s not overly confident, and she doesn’t appear comfortable to the point where she can smile and joke. She’s not freaking out either, or fiddling her fingers, or glancing back and forth nervously. Intrigued, the detective watches without saying a word, while writing notes on his pad of paper.

“On why you think you can write a confession, get caught, and sit before me like nothing happened? Why kill her in the first place? Because your husband cheated on you? Because she took your job? You ha-” Officer Douchebag is cut off when the detective stops him. The detective had raised a hand to silence the officer, who apparently had overstepped a boundary. Liz shifts her gaze back to the detective, who sighs, readying himself to speak, and she gets her words in now, with that same mild, cool melody.

“I wrote a story, a short story. I have been writing ones like it for over.. 2 years now. The editor for the column was my best friend in college. She was supposed to put my story in the column, like she does every third Friday of the month. I’ll give you my computer password and you can see for yourself, each submission. And you can snag every copy of the paper with it printed and see for yourself. Normally I write third person. I decided to change it up..mistake on my part.

Also, if you haven’t already begun to, you can see all my records. My financial records. My criminal records. My employment records. My family records. You’ll see I’ve never married. Never even been engaged. I’ve been in love with my childhood best friend since cooties stopped being a thing. I’ve never told him. And I’ve never worked anywhere but Barnes and Noble and Target. I’ve only ever worked part time, because my full-time job is being a writer/author. Since I was little, I’ve never had to go through corrective action, or had to endure punishments. My mother never beat me, my father never yelled. I was never tardied, I never got detention, I’ve never gotten a ticket, and I hadn’t been arrested before..before now.

As far as my financials, it’ll be clear I don’t shop at Macy’s and Dillard's. I don’t buy expensive dresses, whether they’re Prada or Gucci. I’ve never owned a pearled necklace, nor would I ever wear one. Any kind of clothing I’ve had or bought is from the gap, Target or Amazon. I have a 2013 Nissan, not a Cadillac. I live in a flat, one bedroom studio apartment, because that’s all I could afford.

And that night, the night that girl was killed, I was asleep, deep into the hours of the night. I have tiny cameras set in my room, in case someone breaks in while I’m away, or does something while my back is turned. You’ll see I’m sleeping, writing, drinking or watching Netflix at any given time at night, because I hate going out after dark. My social life is next to zilch.

You’ll also see my computer screen and when I wrote the short story. I wrote it over the course of three days, before submitting it to my editor. On that computer I have the original copy, the receipt of when she received the short story, the conversation we had over it one morning, and if you look to the left, in a locked box, I have a collection of unopened nilla folders that I had mailed to myself over the course of many years. They call it the poor man’s copyright. Each piece of writing is signed, dated to the millisecond, screenshot, and notarized by the postal office.

Also, I’ve never owned a pistol. I have a BB gun that looks like a handheld. I’m sure your goons have found that already, after ravaging my apartment. It’s hardly enough to kill someone. It would hurt like hell, but it’d take precision to hit the right artery, and even then, death wouldn’t be instant. She would have had time to get help or get someone’s attention.”

Pausing, Liz lets her gaze go from the detective, who’s sat back in his metal chair, clearly astonished, to the officer who stares at her with a blank look. Sure enough, as she spoke, each thing she predicted happened. Her apartment had been ravaged, her records had been invaded and her entire life from the age of 1 had been exposed to the police and feds. She knew it would happen. She knew the second Jason told her what was going on. It’s why she was so calm. She saw it coming. It would have happened whether she fought it or not. So she saved her energy. She bides her time, and when it was just right, she spoke. And not once did her voice waver. She didn’t mumble, didn’t stutter or stall. She spoke so matter of fact-ly, and bluntly, it stunned the detective. He figured she’s either the most talented liar he knows or she’s telling the truth and this was all a big, unfortunate coincidence. He leaned towards the latter, but Officer Douchebag wasn’t willing to budge.

“So, what, this was all a coincidence, that your confession and the girl being murdered was just a story that happened to come alive? I don’t buy it.” Captain Douchebag, having graduated ranks, folds his arms and shakes his head. Liz gives him her undivided attention, and when she talks again, it’s in his immediate direction.

“You will, when the reports come back. We’ve been here for what, three, four hours? They probably started turning my life inside out the instant you barged in. I’d bet money you’ll get a notification on your pager, telling you the results are in. You’ll consult with your goons on a phone call. You’ll listen to them prove every one of your thoughts wrong, and you’ll come back here to uncuff me.

Also, for the record, and I know something’s recording me, somewhere. That wasn’t a confession in the paper.”

Captain Douchebag goes to tell her off, after gaping at her incredulously. But his pager goes off, and everyone falls silent. The detective holds back a grin, Liz keeps her eyes on the officer, and her lawyer doesn’t try to mask his smirk. Flustered, the officer snatches the pager and storms out of the room. When he leaves the detective grins.

“Well, Ms. Grey. Either you’re incredibly intelligent or you’re psychic. Quite frankly, I’m not sure which scares me more.” Chuckling now, the detective shakes his head, dumbfounded. Liz gave him a crooked, slight smile as a thanks for the compliment. It wasn’t long after that the officer came back in, waves another in to take her cuffs off and storms back out, cursing under his breath.

“Well.. I guess that’s it, Ms. Grey. Question though, if you don’t mind?” It’s ironic, the one who should have interrogated is asking permission to ask questions.

“I don’t mind.”

“Why did you want a lawyer? He didn’t really serve a purpose..”

“I wanted a witness. I wasn’t sure who would come in here to interrogate me, so I wanted him, just in case.” Shrugging, Liz offers her hand to be shaken by the detective. He happily shakes her hand, tips his hat and walks out of the room. Liz follows, with Jason’s cousin at her side. He’s the one to grab her stuff while she slips her jacket on, after she was forced to take it off and leave it. Together, the two stroll down the corridor, to the entrance, and then she’s blinded by lights and cameras. The press is there, with civilians who haven’t left yet. And they all start booing and shouting at Liz. Some rush up to her, demanding she come clean and confess again, or screaming at her, telling her to go to hell and to shoot herself now. She ignores them, while Jason’s cousin shields her from various objects that are thrown at her. He protects her all the way to his Buick. His windows are tinted in the back, so he ushers inside there before getting into the driver seat. He drives, after weaving in and out of the thinning crowds. He drives until there’s maybe one or two people casually walking on the sidewalk, before attempting to drive by the street her apartment is on. Of course, there’s protesters in front of the building, and the windows where her living area is is broken. Liz sees it and sighs.

“Don’t worry. They don’t know where Jason stays, so I’ll take you there.” His cousin says, and knowing grin on his face.

“Just.. don’t tell him what I said back there.” The blood rushes to her cheeks, and he laughs lightly at her embarrassment.

“Trust me, Lizzy, he’s felt the same way for as long.” The two grin at each other. It doesn’t take long for them to get to Jason’s house. Liz gets out while the cousin stays, leaving her to run into Jason’s open arms. The two secret lovebirds run into his own apartment building and disappear into his two bedroom flat. They stay there, talking, eating and then watching movies until both pass out on the couch. In the morning they’ll wake. Jason will turn the TV on, and gently nudge Liz until she wakes up too. Then the both will watch the Mayor address the public with Captain Douchebag scowling behind him, with the detective. The Mayor expressed his deep apologies that morning, and made it crystal clear that Elizabeth Grey hadn’t murdered anyone, that the printing in the paper was a mistake, and that there are new leads on the real culprit.

It was Jason’s idea for her to cut her hair that afternoon, into a cute swing bob, and use the blue contacts he never used. She died her hair too, and started wearing makeup. They knew things weren’t over just yet; those who grew to hate her life Douchebag did wouldn’t let her off so easily. So she wore the new look for a while, until the news simmered out and people started caring less and less about the Ruth girl. Liz published more stories under the name Beth White, and Jason eventually proposed to Liz. As the months went on all was well, and life righted itself again. Liz is outside now, hand in hand with her fiance, walking to their apartment from his truck.

It starts to rain again. Liz looks up, and she smiles.

Everyone stopped suspecting.

And the killer never was found.

Author's Note

Feedback is always welcomed. And of course, don't forget to check out my other stories. There's more to come, as always.

Reviews

[DianneR]

Confident, cocky Liz has the perfect alibi, but did she do it? This is a puzzler. Was she smiling up at the rain from relief or from realizing she had gotten away with murder? Was the fiance in on it too? Or was he just as innocent as she would have the reader believe? These are the questions that pop into my thinking immediately after reading this story. I like how it's a story within a story. How clever.

[SSKaitlyn]

Aha, you're asking all the right questions. That's the beauty of it though- it keeps you guessing and leaves an open ending for your own interpretation. If you remember though, the woman in her story had done what she did at the end. Could be a way of tying the two together.

Again, your review is much appreciated. Thank you.

[Raven Moonchild]

Wow. This story is absolutely fantastic!!!! I actually sat and read it more than once simply because I throughly enjoyed it. :)

[SSKaitlyn]

Thank you, love. I'm glad you enjoyed it ^^

[Duncan Brown]

France France France France...........................

[Rubein Geterminah]

The narrative is worth telling.
The victim of love in a marriage without children had strived to remain happy and not detached.
Her husband's infedility though not expected then, still surfaced.
Thus she takes vengeance on a perfect night when no one expected her to.
Thus making it a perfect murder as seen in the title.
Good narrative.

[SSKaitlyn]

Close, but not quite. The narrative is split. The woman in the story is Liz, but she changes her story to cover up what she did in her life. She was never married, never had someone cheat on her, but it helped her case when she compared and contrasted the story to herself and the short story she sent to the newspaper. The short story Liz wrote is what you read first, then what happens after Liz sends it to the newspaper. All the time Liz is the story, and the lady in her short story, but she never mentions her name or appearance. So she's found innocent. But is she really? That's the question at the end. And that's why it's the perfect murder, because Liz psychologically bested everyone with her story and defense.

I hope that made sense. But thank you for the review. Much appreciated

[Rubein Geterminah]

Welcome.
So much constructive

[SSKaitlyn]

Yes sir, thank you