[ WP ] You are a detective who has closed every case but one , a serial murderer who has taunted you all your career . After retiring you start to suspect your significant other .

Sorry, I forgot it was after retirement.. I hope you still like it. 
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 “ God damnit! He sent me another one. ” Detective Alan Coolidge threw his Styrofoam coffee cup onto the floor. It hit the tile with a quiet clunk. Every month, Coolidge received a gift from the infamous Holiday Killer. The festive nickname was coined by a local journalist for the serial murders taking place on a holiday. It didn ’ t matter what the holiday, so long as it can be found on a calendar someone will die. 
 
 Coolidge ’ s partner glanced at his watch, 10:30PM. “ Go home, Alan. You need a break. That sexy wife of yours is probably waiting for you spread eagle on your dining room table. ” 
 
 “ What the fuck, Jason? ” 
 
 “ Now you ’ re not thinking about that fucking killer. ” Coolidge, angry –though aroused- by Jason ’ s comment, was thankful for the distraction. He nodded in agreement, grabbed his coat, and ran out. This was the longest shift, nearly 20 hours of nonstop searching. Today, he received a package; a bloody branch. An Arbor Day murder. Tomorrow morning, Detective Coolidge will answer his phone to be informed that they found another body. 
 
 He pulled into his driveway. The lights were still on inside, his wife waiting for him. Alan knew that dinner was warm in the oven, and Natasha- the love of his life- would be sitting on the sofa in her pajamas reading Agatha Christie. Pulling himself together, Alan entered his home, and as predicted Natasha put down her novel to greet her husband. 
 
 “ Hi, Honey. You look awful, ” she joked. 
 
 Alan kissed her on the forehead. In the kitchen, he poured himself his nightly whiskey. He took it in one swig, slammed his glass down, cracking the base. “ Damnit! ” Alan grabbed walked over to the trash to toss it, when he noticed clipped branches shoved to the bottom of the can. He pulled it out slowly; it looked the same as the one… No, he thought, there ’ s no way. Detective Coolidge continued to rifle through the trash. Below the potato peels, napkins, and week-old Chinese leftovers, he found a bloody paper towel. 
 
 “ Alan, what are you doing? ” Natasha stood in the doorway. The detective began seeing her in a different light. Could she be the one? She knew his movements, how he thinks, how he works. The Holiday Killer lives in his own home. “ Is this about the Holiday Killer? ” Natasha continued, “ What was in the package? ” 
 
 “ How do you know I got a package? ” 
 
 “ You ’ re acting weird. Usually, that means something happened. ” 
 
 “ What did you do while I was at work? ” 
 
 “ I don ’ t know. Cooked? Cleaned? Other things? Why are you asking me these questions? ” 
 
 Coolidge pulled the bloody paper and the branches from the trash. He tossed them onto the counter, “ what the fuck is this? ” 
 
 “ You ’ re scaring me, Alan. ” 
 
 “ Did you do this?! ” 
 
 “ Trimmed the tree? Yeah. ” 
 
 “ Who did you kill this time? ” 
 
 “ You need to go to bed. You ’ ve been working for a whole day, you ’ re tired. ” 
 
 “ You ’ re the Holiday Killer! My own wife. I LOVED YOU! ” 
 
 Natasha took a step back. She couldn ’ t hide the fear from her face. “ You ’ re insane. I ’ m calling Jason, you need help. ” She moved towards her cell phone charging on the coffee table. Her husband grabbed a knife from the drawer and lunged at her. He pushed it deep into her back. Natasha fell forward, screaming and begging. Alan ’ s body held her down as he continued to stab her in the back, finishing her off by plunging the knife into her throat. 
 
 Underneath him, his wife ’ s lifeless body stared out into nothing, blood pouring from her mouth. 
 
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 Detective Jason Frankel visited his old friend in prison for the first time. Prisoner # 79016 sat chained to the table, clad in a bright orange jumpsuit. Alan ’ s eye lit up, smile spreading across his face. 
 
 “ You did it! You found the evidence that Natasha was the Holiday Killer! ” 
 
 Detective Frankel chose to stand; he knew his visit would be short. “ We received another package. A Mother ’ s Day murder. ” He handed the prisoner a photo. A sonogram with the name “ Natasha Coolidge ” printed on top. “ We found a pregnant woman murdered in the park this morning, but this was addressed to you. ” 
 
 Alan reached out with shaking hands. A small peanut of a fetus stared back at him. He flipped the photo over. Written in what former detective Coolidge believed to be blood, it read “ Oops. ” 

