Do Not Disturb

by Freida McFadden

And my husband is still lying dead on the kitchen floor in a pool of blood.

I want to make one thing clear. I killed him. I’m not going to claim it was the butler or a one-armed man. I did it. I killed my husband. All I can say in my defense is I had a good reason.

“Nick always leaves 201 empty.” I nod. “Because of the leaky pipe, right?” “No,” she says. “Not because of that.” “Then… why?” “Because...” Greta pulls a ball of socks out of the trunk and gets back on her feet while holding onto the wall for support. “Because a couple of years ago, a woman was murdered in there.”

Back when I was a kid, we used to have a real phone. A landline. And when you were mad at someone, you could slam it down. It’s just not the same with a cell phone.

Well, there’s no point in debating what would’ve happened. They’re dead, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.

I’m not dead. Did you think I was? That I’m some corpse my husband propped up in front of the second-floor window to frighten his guests? I’m not. I’m very much alive. And I’m afraid my husband is a murderer.