You get up. Nobody’s pinning a wife murder rap on you. Nope, not today.

You put on a pair of gloves and leave the glass room, careful not to leave any fingerprints. On your way out, you remember – before you saw Edna dead, you did a bunch of stuff. So you use a cloth to wipe your fingerprints off all the doorknobs, removed the hairs from her pillow after a quick nap, took the whiskey bottle you were slobbering onto earlier, cleaned up your vomit from the toilet, and made the horse painting you fixed on the wall slightly crooked again. (Edna never could keep a horse painting straight.)

In a minute, you’re behind the wheel of your convertible. The police pull up to the house just as you’re leaving. Sirens fade into the background as you race down the road. You didn’t leave any evidence, so while you might be a suspect, you don’t have to run for the police for several days trying to ineptly solve a murder, living on nothing but eggs and booze. It’s a great feeling!


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