Truth Be Told

The doorbell rings a second time, interrupting the still of morning. I’ve been up all night, and I’m tired and irritated. Who is it, JW’s? Mormons? Kids selling chocolate? Go away already. 

Through the peephole, I see two police officers in crisp black uniforms standing on the porch. Uh oh. 

An officer knocks on the door. My breath catches, and my pulse quickens. I’ve got to get rid of them. I crack the door and poke out my head.  

“Hi,” I say

“Mr. Jayson Smith?” asks Officer Cook.

“Yes, I’m Jay. How can I help you?”

“We’re following up on your neighbor’s calls, and we have some questions for you. Do you have a moment?”

“Not really. I’m trying to sleep. Can you come back later? 

“It’s only a couple of questions. It won’t take long.” 

My blood runs cold. I’m busted. They know what I did. The neighbors called the cops on me. They’re here to arrest me.

“I didn’t do it,” I blurt. 

“You didn’t do what?” asks Officer Gomez, his brow furrowed.

“Kill my wife.” 

The officers give each other a startled glance. That’s unsettling. I’m thinking maybe they don’t know anything. 

“Why did you say you’re here, officers?”

“We’ve had some calls about strangers lurking in the neighborhood, and we’re talking to all the residents,” says Officer Cook. “You say you killed your wife?” 

Oh crap! They weren’t here to arrest me after all, and I just ratted on myself. I feel panic rising, and my mind races. Think, think, think. 

“Did I say I killed my wife?” I stammer. “No, I meant to say ‘I found my knife.’” The look on the officer’s face tells me they’re not buying it. God, I’m so dumb. Why did I say knife? That makes it worse.

“You found your knife?” asked Officer Gomez, his eyebrows raised. “That’s an odd thing to say. What does a knife have to do with anything? Did you kill your wife with it?”

“No,” I protest, “I wouldn’t kill my wife with a knife. It was a joke! 

“I don’t know if you were joking, but I know you said you killed your wife,” Officer Gomez presses, his voice cold and accusatory. We have to take any statement like that seriously. We’d like to talk to your wife to see how she’s doing.” 

“She can’t talk right now,” I say. My hands tremble, and my brain turns to mush as flashbacks of screams, violence, and terror flood my mind. An unseen force — guilt, shame, idiocy? — compels me to open the door wide. I point to my wife’s crumpled body, clearly visible at the base of the staircase in the living room. I’m so screwed. 

“Look officers, I didn’t kill her, I swear. It was her fault. She tried to hit me, and when I dodged, she fell down the stairs. I’m the abused one here. I’m the victim. She’s always yelling at me, nagging, and complaining, and she just won’t shut up!”

Officer Gomez takes a step towards me and reaches for his cuffs. “Put your hands behind your back. Jayson Smith, you are under arrest for suspicion of murder.” 

My legs buckle and surroundings blur; I feel like I’m suffocating and I gasp for air. Time slows, and for a moment, my heart stops. Just like my wife’s heart stopped last night when I choked the life out of her.