He raises his face to look at me. “Please tell me you believe me. Tell me you don’t think I killed her.” That night I confronted him about her, Nick promised he would make things right. He swore it. That night, Nick was skulking around the motel at three in the morning. And the next morning, the other woman was dead. Stabbed to death. And Nick is the only person who had the key to her room. “I believe you,” I lie. That psychic at the carnival was right. My husband is a murderer. And it’s all because of me.
