THE LAST ALIBI

The detective slid a photograph across the metal table. The image showed a woman lying on a bedroom floor. Her chest was dark with blood. Her eyes were open. Staring at nothing. Cole Mathers recognized the face. Lauren. His wife. “Do you remember killing her?” the detective asked. Cole opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He looked down at his own hands. Clean now. But the memory of the blood wouldn’t leave his nose. “I remember not remembering,” he said finally. The detective leaned back. He was a heavy man with a shaved head and small, patient eyes. His nameplate read Detective Marsh. He had introduced himself three hours ago when the interrogation began. Or maybe it was four hours. Cole had lost track. “You called 911 at 3:52 AM,” Marsh said. “The operator recorded you saying, and I quote, ‘I think I killed her.’ Your voice. Your phone. Your address.” Cole nodded slowly. That part he remembered. Waking up on the couch. The bedroom light on. Walking in. The scream that came out of his own throat. “Then you hung up,” Marsh continued. “Patrol officers arrived at 4:01 AM. They found you kneeling beside the body. Your hands were raised. You were crying. You said, ‘I didn’t mean to.’” Cole closed his eyes. The words echoed in his skull. He had said that. He remembered saying that. But he didn’t remember meaning it. “Where were you between midnight and 3:47 AM?” Marsh asked. “I was drinking. On the couch.” “Alone?” “Lauren left after a fight. Around 11 PM.” “What did you fight about?” Cole rubbed his face. His skin felt wrong. Too tight. Like someone else’s face stretched over his bones. “Money. The credit card bill. She said I was a failure. I said she was spoiled. Normal married people stuff.” “And then?” “I finished a bottle of whiskey. Maybe two. I passed out.” Marsh slid another photo across the table. This one showed a gun. A black Sig Sauer P320. Cole had never seen it before. “This was in your hand when officers arrived. Your fingerprints are on the grip, the trigger, and the magazine. Ballistics confirms it fired the bullet that killed your wife.” Cole stared at the gun. His stomach turned to ice water. “That’s not my gun,” he said. “It’s registered to you.” “No. I don’t own a firearm. I’ve never owned a firearm.” Marsh pulled a third photo. A sales receipt from a gun shop called Coast Range Armory. The date was three weeks ago. The purchaser name was Cole Mathers. The signature matched his own handwriting. Cole felt the room tilt. “That’s not my signature,” he whispered. But even as he said it, he knew it was. The loops on the C. The slant of the l. He had signed his name ten thousand times on grade reports and loan documents. This was his hand. “I don’t understand,” Cole said. “I don’t remember buying a gun.” “Memory loss is common in alcohol-induced blackouts,” Marsh said, not unkindly. “The human brain can function at a high level—walk, talk, drive, even make purchases—without recording any memory of those actions.” “I wasn’t that drunk.” “Your blood alcohol at 4:15 AM was .28. More than three times the legal limit. You were unconscious when the paramedics arrived.” Cole shook his head. “I’m not a violent person. I’ve never hit anyone in my life.” Marsh opened a folder. Inside were printed screenshots. Text messages. “Your wife sent a message to her sister three months ago. Quote: ‘Cole got angry tonight. He threw a glass at the wall. I’m scared.’ Two months ago, she texted a coworker: ‘He’s not the man I married. I don’t feel safe.’ One week ago, she texted the same sister: ‘If something happens to me, look at Cole.’” Cole’s mouth went dry. “I never threw a glass at the wall,” he said. “I don’t remember that.” “According to Lauren’s sister, you broke a glass during an argument. Your left palm was cut. The scar is still there.” Cole looked down at his left hand. There was a thin white scar across his palm. He had no memory of how he got it. “I don’t remember,” he repeated. The words felt pathetic. Like a child’s excuse. Marsh closed the folder. He folded his hands on the table. For a long moment, he just looked at Cole. Not with hatred. With something closer to pity. “Mr. Mathers, I’ve been doing this job for twenty-two years. I’ve sat across from murderers, rapists, and child abusers. Most of them lie. Some of them believe their own lies. But you? I think you really don’t remember.” Cole felt a flicker of hope. “Then you believe me?” “It doesn’t matter what I believe,” Marsh said. “The evidence is overwhelming. Your wife is dead. You were found with the murder weapon in your hand. Your DNA is under her fingernails—she fought back. Your voice is on the 911 call. And you have no alibi for the three hours when your memory goes dark.” He stood up. The metal chair scraped the floor. “The district attorney is filing first-degree murder charges. Because of the domestic violence history, they’re also seeking an aggravated circumstances enhancement. That means life without parole.” Cole couldn’t breathe. The room was shrinking. “I need a lawyer,” he managed. “You’ll get a public defender at your arraignment tomorrow morning. For now, you’re going back to your cell.” Marsh knocked on the door. It opened from the outside. A uniformed officer stepped in. “Anything else?” the officer asked. Marsh shook his head. “Take him.” Cole stood up. His legs were shaking. The officer grabbed his arm and guided him out of the interrogation room. The hallway was bright fluorescent white. Too bright. Cole squinted. They passed other doors. Other rooms. Other people trapped in the same nightmare. “Wait,” Cole said. He stopped walking. The officer pushed him forward. “Keep moving.” “No, wait. I just remembered something.” The officer hesitated. “What?” Cole closed his eyes. A fragment was surfacing. A face. A voice. A single sentence spoken in the dark. “Blame the drunk husband. They always do.” He opened his eyes. “There was another person in the house,” Cole said. “A man. He was in the bedroom. Before I woke up.” The officer stared at him. “You’re saying someone else killed your wife.” “I’m saying I remember a voice. A man’s voice. He said that line. Word for word.” “That’s convenient.” “It’s not convenient. It’s real.” The officer sighed. “Tell it to your lawyer.” He pushed Cole forward again. They walked to the end of the hall, turned right, and entered the holding cell block. The officer unlocked a steel door. Cole stepped inside. It was a small room. Gray concrete walls. A metal bench with a thin mattress. A toilet without a seat. The door slammed shut. The lock clicked. Cole sat down on the bench. He put his head in his hands. The memory fragment was already fading. Like a dream dissolving in morning light. He tried to hold onto it. The voice. It was deep. Calm. Professional. “Blame the drunk husband. They always do.” Who says something like that? Not a burglar. Not a random killer. Someone who knew the system. Someone who knew that a man with a drinking problem and a failing marriage would be the perfect suspect. Cole looked up at the ceiling. A single camera stared down from the corner. Red light blinking. They were watching him. He waved at the camera. Just to see what would happen. Nothing. Of course nothing. He laid back on the mattress. The foam smelled like bleach and vomit. He closed his eyes again. Tried to push past the blank space in his memory. Three hours. From midnight to 3 AM. What happened in those three hours? The fight with Lauren replayed in his mind. She was standing by the front door. Her coat was on. Her keys were in her hand. “I’m going to my sister’s,” she said. “Fine,” he said. “Go.” “Don’t call me.” “I won’t.” She left. The door closed. He poured a glass of whiskey. Drank it. Poured another. That was the last clear memory. Everything after that was smoke. Cole sat up. His head was pounding. He needed water. He pressed the call button next to the door. A buzzer sounded somewhere down the hall. No one came. He pressed it again. After five minutes, a slot in the door slid open. A different officer peered in. “What?” “Water. Please.” The officer grunted. The slot closed. Five minutes later, a paper cup of lukewarm water appeared on the floor. Cole picked it up and drank it in one gulp. He sat back down. His mind was racing now. Trying to piece together the impossible. If he didn’t kill Lauren—and every instinct in his body said he didn’t—then someone else did. Someone who wanted him to take the fall. Someone who knew his habits, his marriage, his drinking. Someone who could plant a gun, stage a crime scene, and leave his fingerprints on the trigger. But how? He was a high school history teacher. He had no enemies. No secrets. No criminal record. Except that wasn’t true, was it? Lauren’s texts said he threw a glass. Cut his hand. She said she was scared. But he didn’t remember any of that. Cole looked at the scar on his left palm again. It was real. The skin was smooth and pale. Old. At least a few months. He pressed his thumb into the scar. It didn’t hurt. Just a numb ridge of tissue. What else don’t I remember? The question terrified him more than the murder charge. Because if he could forget cutting his own hand, what else could he forget? A fight? A threat? A killing? No. He couldn’t go there. He had to hold onto the fragment. The voice. The man in the bedroom. “Blame the drunk husband. They always do.” Cole stood up. He paced the cell. Three steps one way. Three steps back. He needed to think. To plan. The arraignment was tomorrow. He would get a lawyer. He would tell them about the voice. They would investigate. They would find the real killer. But even as he thought it, he knew it was naive. Public defenders were overworked. The evidence was overwhelming. No one was going to believe a blackout drunk who claimed a mystery man whispered in his ear. He needed proof. Cole stopped pacing. He looked at the camera again. “Hey,” he said. “Can you hear me?” No response. “I know you’re recording. I want to make a statement. There was a man in my house last night. He killed my wife. I didn’t see his face, but I heard his voice. He said, ‘Blame the drunk husband. They always do.’ Please include that in your report.” The red light blinked. Steady. Unchanging. Cole sat back down. His heart was pounding. But he had done something. He had created a record. If the police ignored it, that was on them. The hours crawled by. No food came. No more water. Cole lay on the mattress and stared at the ceiling. He tried to remember more. Faces. Sounds. Smells. Nothing. Just the voice. Over and over. Like a broken record. “Blame the drunk husband. They always do.” At some point, he must have fallen asleep. Because the next thing he knew, the door was opening. Bright light flooded the cell. “Mathers. Up. Arraignment.” Cole stood. His body was stiff. His mouth was dry. His head felt like someone had split it open with an axe. Two officers escorted him out of the cell block. They led him through a series of corridors and into a holding room behind the courthouse. A man in a cheap suit was waiting for him. “Cole Mathers? I’m David Kim. Your public defender.” Kim was young. Maybe thirty. He had nervous eyes and a stack of papers in his hands. He didn’t look like someone who could win a parking ticket case, let alone a murder trial. “Thanks for coming,” Cole said. “Don’t thank me yet. The prosecution is asking for no bail. They’re calling you a flight risk and a danger to the community.” “I’m not a flight risk. I don’t even have a passport.” “You have a twin brother who lives overseas. They’ll argue you could flee to him.” Cole froze. “My brother?” “Clark Mathers. Stationed in Germany with the military. You didn’t mention him.” Cole’s mind raced. He hadn’t spoken to Clark in eight years. Not since their father’s funeral. They had exchanged exactly two words: “Goodbye, Cole” and “Good riddance.” “Clark and I aren’t close,” Cole said. “He won’t help me.” “The prosecution doesn’t know that. They’re going to paint you as a man with international connections and nothing to lose.” Kim flipped through his papers. “Here’s the reality. The evidence is brutal. The only chance we have is to argue temporary insanity. You were blackout drunk. You didn’t know what you were doing. We plead guilty to manslaughter, you serve ten to fifteen, you’re out before you’re fifty.” Cole shook his head. “I didn’t do it.” “The gun says you did.” “The gun was planted.” Kim sighed. He looked tired. “Do you have any evidence of that?” Cole opened his mouth. Closed it. The memory fragment felt thin now. A whisper in the dark. Not enough. “I heard a voice,” he said finally. Kim’s expression didn’t change. “A voice.” “A man’s voice. In the bedroom. He said, ‘Blame the drunk husband.’” “Did you see him?” “No.” “Did you recognize the voice?” “No.” Kim put his hand on Cole’s shoulder. It was meant to be comforting. It felt like a weight. “Listen to me. I’ve been doing this for three years. Every client says they’re innocent. Some of them are. Most aren’t. But even the innocent ones lose when they fight a case like this. The plea is the smart move.” Cole pulled away. “I’m not pleading guilty to something I didn’t do.” “Then you’re going to trial. And you’re going to lose. And you’re going to spend the rest of your life in a maximum security prison.” The door opened. An officer stepped in. “Time. Court is ready.” Kim gathered his papers. “Think about what I said. If you change your mind, tell me before the judge reads the charges.” Cole walked into the courtroom. It was small. Wood-paneled. Filled with strangers who looked at him like he was an animal in a zoo. The judge was an older woman with gray hair and cold eyes. “Case number 24-CR-1782. State versus Cole Mathers. Charge: first-degree murder.” The prosecutor stood. A sharp-faced woman in a navy suit. “Your Honor, the state requests no bail. The defendant is accused of a violent murder. He has no ties to the community beyond a dead wife. He has a brother in the military overseas. He is a flight risk.” Kim stood up. “Your Honor, my client is a high school teacher. He has lived in Raven’s Landing his entire life. He is not a flight risk.” The judge looked at Cole. “Mr. Mathers, do you have anything to say?” Cole stepped forward. His voice came out rough. “I didn’t kill my wife. There was a man in my house. I heard him. Someone framed me.” The courtroom went silent. The prosecutor smirked. The judge’s expression didn’t change. “Bail is denied,” she said. “Defendant remanded to custody. Trial date set for six weeks from today.” The gavel fell. Cole felt the floor drop out from under him. The officers grabbed his arms and pulled him toward the side door. He looked back at the courtroom. At the strangers. At the life he had just lost. One face stood out. A woman in the back row. Dark hair. Pale skin. She wasn’t looking at him like he was a monster. She was looking at him like she knew something. Then the door closed. And she was gone. Cole didn’t know it yet. But that woman was Petra Hawthorne. Lauren’s sister. And she had the key to everything.