[ WP ] One of your best friends has committed suicide . Back from the funeral you notice a note in your pocket in his handwriting : `` You 're next . ''

Barb sat on her porch, still dressed in her black dress and cardigan from the funeral. Her little dog- Scotty- scampered out on to the patio. Little claws click-clacking on the hard wood. They wanted cutting. 
 
 
 The sun had started to set on what had been a long and difficult day. The ceremony for her husband had taken place after lunch. There had been no wake afterward, instead Barb had taken a long walk with her daughters and discussed Tom's final affairs. Her youngest, Alicia, had not stopped crying. She had always been the sensitive one. 
 
 
 She had come home to another message on her machine from Constable Myers. He had more questions, he said. But Barb knew he would just talk at her, like he had before. Barb did not like Constable Myers. 
 She chose to ignore him for the time being, and went about making herself some tea. 
 
 
 Barb took out her special cup. It was a pretty thing, small and delicate. It was adorned with blue flowers, and the stems were painted gold. Tom had brought it for her when they started dating, forty years ago. He knew she had loved tea and wanted her to drink it from something nice. He was such a thoughtful man. 
 
 
 She felt herself starting to tear up. She pulled her black cardigan -a favourite of hers-tightly around her shoulders and carried her tea out to the porch. 
 
 
 And there she sat. Staring into the setting sun and contemplating all that had occurred. She thought of her daughters, and of Scotty. She thought of that nasty Constable Myers and his probing questions. She thought of last week. 
 
 
 Tom had been on edge then. Ever since his slip up with that woman in Sydney, nerves had plagued him. Reputation was so very important to him, and he was concerned about who would hear about his mistake. Even though Barb herself had visited her and straightened everything out very quickly, he worried. 
 
 Barb had not been so troubled until Seargent Myers had visited. Until he had told Tom that he was being taken in for questioning. 
 
 Over the last forty years, Tom and Barb Murray had poisoned twenty-seven women. It was all over because Tom, in his old age, had n't been slight enough of hand, had n't remembered to look where the CCTV was pointed. He died later that day, doomed from the moment he rushed to ingest his own poison when Myers arrived at the house. 
 
 
 Barb sighed. They had been so careful up till now. She held Tom's note in her fingers. He had sketched a little picture of her tea cup underneath. `` You're Next'' it read. `` A bit dramatic'' Barb had thought to herself. 
 
 
 Nevertheless, she had got the message well enough. It was only a matter of time before she was linked to Tom in the pursuit of their little hobby, and it seemed that Tom, in his nervousness had been prepared. The was her Tom. Thoughtful until the end. 
 
 Barbara lay back in her chair, that last sunset in her eyes, and she sipped her tea.
