That’s good police work. They’ll find the knife I stashed in Bob’s safe, hidden in the wall, behind a piece of gaudy artwork. It’ll have Kelly’s blood on the blade and Bob’s fingerprints on the handle. I remember the night I gave it to him. He held it in his hands, admiring the blood-streaked blade. Then I asked him to get rid of it and told him to get a rag so he could wipe down the handle. He left the room, and I switched them out—replacing the real murder weapon with one covered in pig’s blood. I knew he would keep it. I could see it in his eyes. He loved me, but he was terrified of me too,
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