I didn’t murder my husband. It’s important to explain that from the very beginning. There are enough people in the world right now who think I’m a conniving murderess. I don’t need you to be one more of them.
I didn’t murder my husband. Which, now that I write the words out, now that I see them there on the page in front of me, they don’t absolutely ring true.
You’ve heard of the unreliable narrator, I assume. It’s a literary device. Meant to trick readers.
I read a book like that once. It was written like a detective novel, which to be totally honest, isn’t exactly my cup of tea, but I was going through what you might call a rough spot and was willing to read anything I could get my hands on.
In this mystery, the narrator herself ended up being the villain, but you didn’t find that out until the very last chapter. I saw it coming a mile away, mind you, but I went online to look at what the reviewers were saying, and most of them had been duped right up until the end.
I’m harder to surprise. Probably because I know just about every trick there is, every manipulative tactic, every method there is for twisting the truth ever so subtly until reality itself bends to your command.
I didn’t murder my husband.
I want you to know that from the very beginning.
But I thank God every day that he’s dead.