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Fiction: The Dead Husband Problem (400 words)

26 Nov

I clung desperately to him, and he let me.  I wasn’t crying, not even dry sobs, but I was shaking, my whole body, head to toe, like the world was trying to get rid of me.  I balled his shirt in my fists, and tried to root myself to the ground to stop the shuttering.  He just stood there.  He didn’t wrap his arms around me.  He didn’t tell me to go.  In fact, I don’t know if he even realized that I had moved.  When I finally controlled myself and took a small step back, but was still staring past me, his eyes still rooted on the place I had been standing before.

“Dean. Please. Say something.”  Finally he blinked, and refocused his eyes on me.  His eyes were so beautiful, such a bright blue, that normally they just cut straight to my heart and caused me to melt into his arms.  But now, to see them in such pain, such fear, with tears that hadn’t been there a moment before—

“I—he—Leigh Anne—they are…” Dean trailed off, and ran his fingers through his hair.  He sank down onto his couch and invited me to sit next to him, “You’re lying right?  This is something that you’re pulling over on me to test my loyalty to you, isn’t it? Please, Leigh Anne, I won’t be mad. Just tell me this is all a joke.”

“It’s not a joke.  Dean.  Peter—Peter is dead.” I repeated.

Dean and I were in a very awkward position.  Peter Masterson, the man found dead in his office this morning, was my husband of four years.  Dean was Peter’s childhood friend, and at one time, business partner.

And Dean and I—well, we had been sleeping together for just over two years.

Dean scrubbed his hand vigorously over his face.  “You know, any detective worth his beans is going to assume that one of us did it.”  He muttered through his hands.

“Yeah.  That was a concern of mine as well.”  I slipped off the couch and kneeled down in front of Dean. I pulled his hands off his face, and held them in mine. “Dean, I just need to ask.  Did you kill Peter?”

“I swear to you, Leigh Anne, I did not kill Peter.  And if you’ll forgive me, I have to ask.  Did you kill Peter?”

“I didn’t—but Dean. Who is going to believe us?”

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Posted by on November 26, 2014 in Stories

 

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