I stare at the once-forgotten piece of paper, tracing the wrinkles with my finger. So he found it. I knew this was futile, it's not like I ever loved the shithead. I place the photograph back into my sister's favourite book. I lay atop the bastard's bed, wondering what he thought of me. He probably thinks I'm infatuated. I gag at the thought.
​
What did he hope to achieve by staying silent? Was he playing detective? So childish.
​
Now came the big question. What do I do? I can kill him. I can run away. Burn the photograph. Pretend I was "reading my favourite book when I couldn't help but notice it." I could pretend I don't want to talk about myself or go the other way and come up with an excruciatingly elaborate lie.
​
I sigh, wearily getting up, as I do, the doorbell rings. Possibilities fill my mind as I walk towards the front door.
​
"Can I help you, officers?"
​
Again?
​
"Ma'am, you are under arrest for the mur-"
​
I snap my fingers, and a familiar piece of paper appears between them, a drawer in front of me.
​
A letter this time. A suicide note. This is going to be good.
InsrtName9 t1_iyek92m wrote
Reply to [WP] Your wife has an estranged sister that you have never met. She was murdered in a cold case soon after you were married. You brush off your wife’s new strange behaviour after the murder as grief. Until you find an old family photo of your wife as a kid, you shiver as you realise… they’re twins. by AUFunmacy
I stare at the once-forgotten piece of paper, tracing the wrinkles with my finger. So he found it. I knew this was futile, it's not like I ever loved the shithead. I place the photograph back into my sister's favourite book. I lay atop the bastard's bed, wondering what he thought of me. He probably thinks I'm infatuated. I gag at the thought.
​
What did he hope to achieve by staying silent? Was he playing detective? So childish.
​
Now came the big question. What do I do? I can kill him. I can run away. Burn the photograph. Pretend I was "reading my favourite book when I couldn't help but notice it." I could pretend I don't want to talk about myself or go the other way and come up with an excruciatingly elaborate lie.
​
I sigh, wearily getting up, as I do, the doorbell rings. Possibilities fill my mind as I walk towards the front door.
​
"Can I help you, officers?"
​
Again?
​
"Ma'am, you are under arrest for the mur-"
​
I snap my fingers, and a familiar piece of paper appears between them, a drawer in front of me.
​
A letter this time. A suicide note. This is going to be good.