Night fell, and a violent storm raged outside. The wind howled, hurling rain against the glass windows with a furious drumming.
The atmosphere inside the murder house was suffocating, thick with dread.
I had tied Linnea to a dining chair with nylon rope, a rag jammed into her mouth.
Her eyes bulged with terror, and muffled whimpers escaped her throat.
I sat on the sofa across from her, slowly, methodically sharpening the boning knife on a whetstone.
The rasp of metal echoed through the empty living room.
Staring at the cold gleam on the blade, my mind drifted back to the distant past.
My first husband was a violent drunk. Whenever he got wasted, he'd whip me with his belt.
He later died of a heart attack triggered by alcohol poisoning, because I'd slipped an overdose of antibiotics
