[ 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 .

`` Honeeeeeey!'' I pursed my lips and crossed my arms to guard against the sudden shivery chill that ran down the back of my neck to my toes. 
 
 `` Huuuuuuun!'' Echoed through the house again, probably coming from the garage, I thought, as I shuffled my toes and sipped my lukewarm coffee in the kitchen. I could n't delay answering my husband of -- how many years, 25? -- *this thing*, this monster, this horrible creature, this *liar*. 
 
 `` Yeah?'' I called back, my thin and screechy voice as shaky and weak as a newborn kitten mewling for the comfort of a warm, trusting tummy to snuggle up to. 
 
 `` Where's my pink apron? You, know, the one with the smiley cupcakes? I need it to make my signature souffle tonight!'' Ah, right. The signature souffle always hot and ready for reluctant consumption by the kids who always insist it's their favorite dish and say *oh yes, Dad, you've really outdone yourself! *while Clark beams at the head of the table in culinary pride. He may not value the sanctity of a human life, but he sure valued his kids' -- our kids' -- approval more than anything else in the world. Which is probably why he still insists on wearing that sillly, frilly, magenta apron that Ellie got him for his forty first birthday when she was six whenever he cooks that stupid souffle. 
 
 `` I do n't know, Clark, have you checked the linen closet?'' 
 
 A pause. No more shuffling cardboard boxes and muffled old pottery breaking. `` The linen closet? We hardly ever use that thing.'' 
 
 `` Try the third shelf. Under the blanket your granny sewed.'' Where the hunting knife rested with the faintest red sheen of blood and one, just one, serrated tooth missing from the blade. The same knife that plunged through the cartilage, flesh, and eyes of innocent old women aging towards a peaceful death. The knife that used to be there, that is, before I discovered it and held it with shaky fingers through a lace doily because I knew, *I knew* that this was the smoking gun I'd been hunting for twenty years, and sent it off to Creepy Jerry in forensics to lift prints. 
 
 Of course I used other means of investigation. Every fantasy football night, grocery trip, and golfing day I was rifling through his drawers, in is desk, and in the attic. Until one frigid day, with the wind screeching and howling and battering at the old creaky cracking wood of the attic ceiling I found, buried at the bottom of his old baseball card collection from childhood, the sticky polaroid photographs of bloodied dead eyes clouded over with cataracts staring at me, through me, accusing me of blindly turning the other way while my husband, the love of my life, murdered countless innocent old women. 
 
 As the deceptively light foot steps that used to make my heart skip beats when I heard them coming towards my dorm room door in college padded toward an aged, heartbroken me in the kitchen the phone rang. That would be Creepy Jerry calling to tell me what I already knew was true. My husband was the The Granny Grinder.
