How can I get away from her?
“When was the last time you saw your wife?” Officer Perez asked.
“This morning,” I replied, “Right before I left for work.”
He looked down as he wrote something on his little notepad, “Did you speak with her at all after that?” He looked back up at me.
I shook my head.
“Is that normal?”
“What do you mean?” I asked him to clarify.
“Is it normal for your wife to contact you while you’re at work?” Officer Perez rephrased the question.
“Not really,” I said, “She knows how busy I am and only contacts me if she has something important to say.”
He wrote in his notepad again.
“Can you think of any reason why she might want to leave without telling you?” he asked.
“If you’re asking if there was a reason for her to leave me, the answer is no,” I was offended by the implication.
If anything, I’m the one who had a reason to leave, I thought. That woman was insane. If she didn’t have such a wealthy family who would ruin me if I tried to divorce her, I would have left years ago.
“Well,” Officer Perez said, “I think I have all I need.” He slid the notepad into his pocket before getting to his feet. “Do you mind if I take a look around before I leave?” He gestured toward the interior of the house, “See if I see anything out of the ordinary?”
“Help yourself,” I said.
Before he started his search of the house, he pulled a necklace out of his shirt and clasped the medallion that hung from the end of it.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“This is Saint Rita of Cascia,” he explained as he showed me the medallion, “She is the patron saint of lost causes, especially those involving women. At least that’s what my mother always told me. This used to be hers before she passed.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I kept my mouth shut.
“Do you mind if I look around on my own?” he asked when he saw that I was prepared to follow him. “This may sound silly, but I like to talk to Saint Rita, asking for her help and guidance, and I’m a little self-conscious about it.”
“Yeah, go ahead,” I gestured, But you won’t find anything here.
***
“I’m done,” Officer Perez said fifteen minutes later.
“Did Saint Rita offer any advice?” I asked in jest.
“It doesn’t work like that,” he replied, “But if she can help, she will,” he said, “She always does.”
After he left, I celebrated by cracking open a bottle of champagne and drinking while singing, Ding Dong the Witch is Dead.
I must have had a little too much to drink because when I woke up, I was sprawled out on the couch. The first thing I noticed when I sat up was that I had an extremely full bladder.
I pulled myself to my feet and staggered toward the bathroom. I’d managed about a dozen steps before I suddenly tripped over something. When I looked to see what it was, I was shocked to see my wife’s severed forearm lying on the floor.
What the fuck! I threw you in a dumpster on the other side of town!
Things got crazier from there.
I hadn’t noticed it at first, but there was a black Sharpie marker in my wife’s dismembered hand. As I stood there staring in shock, the hand began writing a message on the tiled floor.
The rest of me will be along shortly, the message said.
