I tightened the shoelace around her throat and watched as her face shifted from blue to a deep, disturbing purple, her eyes bulging in a grotesque, almost surreal way. Eventually, the struggle stopped. Her limbs went slack, and the life slowly drained from those once-bright sky-blue eyes. I loosened the lace and let her crumple to the floor with a dull, final thud. After admiring my handiwork for a brief moment, I turned and walked away, a dark smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. One thing was certain—I’d never have to worry about my husband touching her again. Unless, of course, he harbored a secret fetish for dead girls.

Her body lay undisturbed in that forgotten warehouse for nearly a month before a couple of stoned teenagers stumbled across it. By then, she’d deteriorated so badly she was almost indistinguishable. Bye-bye, fingerprints.

The funeral was lovely, though. Truly. I wore my favorite black dress and played the grieving friend to perfection—sobbing, shaking, practically convulsing with grief. They must have spent at least ten grand on that coffin. All I could think was: such a beautiful box for such a dirty little bitch.