It couldn’t have been. I’m a detective, I solve the crimes, catch the murderers, I cannot be one of them. But the clues, they are there.

I knew the victim. She worked in the coffee shop I visited every morning. We didn’t talk outside the small talk required to get my needed caffeine. Nothing interesting, nothing evil. But she was dead. Her throat slit. And there was a knife found at the scene (sloppy!! Careless!!). The knife was a fishing knife, just like the one I lost at the lake last month. It wasn’t a rare style, but still...

I paced my apartment, nervous. No one pointed their finger at me (they will never know!) but soon someone would connect the dots, and knock on my door. Should I flee? (No, no, no, do not run!)

Who had killed this girl? And why? (It was fun.). I needed a shower (so dirty.). I went to my bathroom, and looked in the mirror.

I didn’t recognize the face looking back.