[ 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 .

One not unexpected product of my retirement was spending more time at home, more time in the company of my wife. Until then, I had been so wholly engrossed in my work. I had spent nights, holidays and vacations at the precinct. That first day just the two of us, it hit me how much I had missed her. It was like seeing her again after forty years. Her smile still charmed me as much as it did when we first met. Her scent was still as sweet. She had that wit and easy laugh I had almost forgotten. No more files, no more cases, no more murders, just us. 
 
 About two months after my retirement I realized that perhaps I knew my wife even less than I thought I did. She had friends and hobbies I knew nothing about. She had joys she had never shared with me. After a while, it felt like living with someone who wore her face and imitated her smile, but was a stranger. When I was alone in the house, I searched for indications of who she had become. I loved her. I wanted to be a part of her life in all ways possible. 
 
 That is how I found the folder. My record as a detective was unparalleled, but there was one murderer I had never succeeded in bringing to justice. He called himself The Wolf, and he had killed twelve young women in parks and forests in the Boston area, leaving them displayed to be found. He had sent the police riddles, hints, evidence even, but we had never even gotten close to him. The folder contained news clippings about The Wolf, printouts of police reports, copies of the letters he had sent the police and other sensitive documents I have no idea how she had managed to procure. 
 
 When I questioned her about it, she said that she had kept it for me, to help me deal with the stress of the investigation, perhaps even to uncover something the police had missed. She kissed my cheek and told me of how she knew one day I would still catch him, that there was no detective like me. I held her in a tight embrace. 
 
 One week later, Amber Gregson, 23, was found in Dorchester Park. She had been dressed in a red hood and hung from a tree. I stared with disbelief at the news report. A call to my former partner at the station confirmed what I had feared. The Wolf had killed again.
