A cold rain fell on a chilly mid-November day. One of those days where lying in bed all day, snug under the covers, was almost too tempting to resist. But I was summoned to John’s house.
I warned him about her. That time he went to the police to complain, they laughed at him; saying a man of his size could take care of himself against a woman of her size. No talking to her. No checking to see how they lived. No nothing. Pissed me off. Aren’t the cops suppose to be the good guys?
She was dangerous, but John was hell bent on making it work. She didn’t love him. I often wondered if she was capable of feeling anything for anyone. Anything but hate.
The moment I walked in to their house, I knew something was wrong. Furniture was overturned, dishes were broken, and they were nowhere in the house. I walked out back, about two hundred yards into the woods. There was John kneeling over her, as she lye dead. He dropped the gun, and sobbed into he shoulder.

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