[ 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 .

I closed the book at page 767, only a couple of pages until the end. I listened to the descending footsteps, my wife ’ s, fall with a methodical rhythm. I had listened to that noise through many long nights pouring over online documents. Her steps provided a beat throughout my erratic clacking. Few would guess how much I wanted retirement, myself especially. I had always worked for promotions, having faith I would find an achievement that was enough. When I found her, working paperwork at the office, I thought I had found a possible end. 
 
 I had been a detective for three years before I had been assigned to the “ Ash murders ” case. The murder burned her corpses so thoroughly that identification and burial were impossible. The media had gone insane at the possibility of a serial killer in this town. This was right after the peak of the Mensa murderer, who had toyed with and killed seven geniuses and prodigies before growing bored and disappearing. I got the lead of the assignment after the first heads were murdered. Back then, I didn ’ t put in much work, but my natural intelligence had allowed me to solve even the most difficult cases and I had grown a reputation with those in the know. The murderer came to this town for me, I ’ m sure of it. She, the murderer, has had a fascination for me since the beginning. She has killed everybody I have helped; every person related to any case I solved. I guess you can say they died because of me, because I brought her here. She was why I had worked so hard for atonement and why I had cut my ties. It had taken my wife nearly a year to convince me to date, and by then I realized I already couldn ’ t lose her. I had always wondered why she chose me, the cursed detective. 
 
 It was a rainy day when I found the body. The body was laid in the middle of the road and was smoking slightly when I arrived. I found in the breast pocket “ Samantha O ’ Carrol ”, a mother ’ s name. Her son ’ s murder was my first case. The corpse smelled familiar, and it hadn ’ t been just the smoke. I had been surprised I remembered the smell all those years later, but I guessed some smells never go away. That night I came home and yelled upstairs. I heard the footsteps of my wife as she came down the stairs, saw her enter the room, and then I smelled the perfume of the corpse. I stiffened as she embraced me and asked “ Rough day at the office, hun? ” 
 
 I tried to forget it, ignore it, but I knew she noticed. She assumed I read alone only because I needed more thinking time. She thought I had stopped coming to her on bad days because I was scared of breaking down in front of her. She thought I had become too busy for intimacy. She chalked my destruction of her perfume to nerves, and bought an identical bottle. I continued seeing new bodies, smelling sweetly, until last week when I quit, hoping that the murders would stop when I left. Of course, they won ’ t, but I could try to forget that. 
 
 “ I ’ m going to the Stevenson ’ s if you want to come ” my wife said, coming into the room. She knew I wouldn ’ t, but she always asked me. I declined, and she left, starting up the car. I read the same page for the next fifteen minutes, and then decided I ’ d go with her. I arrived at the Stevenson ’ s a couple minutes later, and knocked on the door. Jennifer, the wife, opened the door and welcomed me inside. 
 
 “ Don ’ t take this the wrong way, but we weren ’ t expecting you ” she said. 
 
 “ I know, I haven ’ t been out of the house very much, but I figured I ’ d need something to do in retirement. ” 
 
 “ Yes, but we thought you ’ d cancelled. Your wife just texted us she ’ d be coming half an hour late ” 
 
 I stopped. “ She isn ’ t here? ” I asked. 
 
 “ No, isn ’ t she home? ” 
 
 “ No… I have to leave. I think she might be in trouble. ” I lied, forcing my legs to walk slowly to my car. 
 
 “ Trouble? ” I heard ask, high-pitched as she remembered my involvement in the murders. 
 
 I left the house, sprinted to the car. I knew where my wife was. Brendan Wei, the one who ’ s brother was shot three times. He was the only one alive who lived in this neighborhood. I saw his house, all lights off, her car in the driveway. I called 911, shouted what I knew, hang up before any questions, grabbed my pistol and opened the unlocked door. The light switch wouldn ’ t turn on. I knew it was dangerous, suicidal even, approaching a killer in the dark, but then I heard her call from inside, heard her mock sobbing, and suddenly death didn ’ t seem so bad. I walked slowly, evenly, despite her false pleas and her shouting. I began approaching the room she was in, the door lit by a window to the moon. Suddenly, she became quiet, and I hear metal move as she picked something up. I opened the door and pointed my gun. 
 
 “ Honey? ” she asked, as I fired two shots, one of which hit the chest. 
 
 She collapsed, and I fell there, berating her, telling her what could have been, saying the things I would have told her a year ago. They found me like that, crying and babbling and rocking. I was sentenced for breaking and entering, and had to undergo therapy for a few years.With alcohol and work, I found a way to keep living, right up until the day I found her corpse on my doorstep, burned except for the face, smelling of smoke and perfume. 

