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  • Writer's pictureJeff South

Blogtober, Day 11

Word of the day: Crime

Leslie debated as to whether she should be worried about Marty. His stubbornness made him a terrible patient when he didn’t feel well. He sounded awful, though, when they spoke on the phone. She was at the gym listening to one of her true crime podcasts trying to decide if she should go back to work or go check on her husband. Something in her tugged at her that he needed her, but she didn’t want to overstep. Marty gets fussy when she tries to micromanage and she honestly didn’t want to have to have that conversation again. She dabbed her sweaty face with a towel and saw that she had four missed calls from Marty. Odd, since she never heard the phone ring while listening to the podcast on it. Four voicemails, too. She checked the first one and gasped at what she heard.

“Come home. I need you.”

His wasn’t playful and flirty, the way it sometimes is when he leaves such a message. No, this time his voice was raspy and strained. Each subsequent message carried the same tone until the fourth one, which caused her to race out of the gym. She heard uncharacteristic tears and near sobs from Marty.

“Please. Now. I want to die.”

Leslie sped home, screeched into the driveway, and raced into the house to find Marty at the kitchen island. He shivered, sweat covering his face. His right hand was on the counter.

In his left, he held a meat cleaver.

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