“I’m sorry we had an argument,” I said to the detective. “But I didn’t kill him. I love my husband. I loved him.”
The interrogation room was heated, but I felt a cold chill just thinking about last night.
“What else can you tell us, Mrs. Novak?” asked the detective.
“Just like I told the lady cop,” I said as the tears started to fall. “I thought he went into the spare bedroom to sleep. Around 11, I heard a noise downstairs. I called out for Jeff but he didn’t answer. I went looking for him and found him in my writing room.”
I could still see the image in my head. He was sitting in my sacred space, my writing room. It was a small, narrow area that I had painted white to make it feel bigger. I kept a small fridge in there for snacks and a microwave to make coffee. I loved to sit in my favorite purple chair to read and write stories in my notebooks. Sometimes I read to my trolls who sat on the filing cabinet, guarding everything I have ever written.
I snapped out of my reverie when the detective asked “What happened next?”
“I found him on the floor,” I said sobbing. “He was in his jeans with no shirt, socks or shoes. I didn’t walk in the room because I thought he had passed out – again. I left him there and went back to bed.”
“Would you like to take a break?” asked the detective.
I easily stopped crying and sobbing when he left the room. I thought about Jeff, how he always criticized my stories when he drank, saying I’d never be a writer. I was surprised that the beer bottle didn’t break when I hit him over the head with it. That son of a bitch jerk got what he deserved.