[ 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 .

`` Was it you?'' I said, face aghast. 
 
 She looked up from her supper, `` Pardon moi monsieur?'' 
 
 `` You've been acting kind of funny lately. Doing weird things with your supper,'' I pressed, eye contact activated, `` Killed any people lately?'' 
 
 She looked at me deadpan and threw the spoon down, `` Monty you're a terrible husband.'' 
 
 But I knew better. She was a witch, and had killed people for ingredients for wicked spells. I know this because I read her diary three days prior. Needless to say, it had shocked me and rocked the very foundation of who I was, as I knew me. My wife - the love of my whole damn fucking life - had lied to me through my whole career. All those times she had gone out and said she had to'do the recycling' - that was all a complete ruse to tamper my mind, and disguise the fact that she was really Shadow Woman, the woman who lurked in the alleys to stab men as they strolled. 
 
 The diary evidence was n't enough. I had to catch her in the act. 
 
 In her sleep she would sometimes flail and hit me on the head with great inconvenience - but this time I was ready. I seized her rogue hand and threw my leg over to mount her. By doing this I achieved the upper hand. Her face was askew with a strange surprise. 
 
 `` A fake surprise'' I recited assuredly. 
 
 I, the tornado master, executed a fatal spin and threw the jezebel out the window. It was the only way to be sure of her Shadow ways. 
 
 Surely enough, a loud crack was heard as her wings exploded from her back. She landed safely and swiftly, like a Shadow Woman be. I stared from the upstairs window down at this alien bitch, dumbfounded, but heartbreakingly not surprised. As a detective, I ( of course ) had read her diary several days prior, but in addition I had found numerous suspicious black feathers decorated throughout our loving home - feathers that matched the mysterious black quills that had been left at the murder scenes of the manly strollers in the night. The term Shadow Woman had been coined by me personally out of gut intuition, and the term had caught on in a jovial manner throughout the local station. 
 
 Sweet, dearest Betty Anne, my ever-giving wife, had transformed into a monster hawk witch in the heat of the night. My detective instinct was to promptly Instagram the scene for permanent and public incrimination of my ex-lover, but before I could frame her vast bosom in a satisfactory composition, she took off with a coy flap of the wing and a wink of the eye. 
 
 Into the night she went, and into my bed I retired, pondering my future without her soft attention, but simultaneously falling asleep into a very cosy duvet cuccoon-wrap.
