Phil. That spineless bastard. He didn’t just rob me of my moment—he left me holding the fucking bag.
The detectives hauled me in without hesitation, their smug faces practically screamingopen-and-shut case. My ‘murder kit’ was all the evidence they needed, along with my connection to Margaux and her well-documented history with Timmy.
“You couldn’t have made this easier for us if you tried,” one of them sneered as they cuffed me.
There are definitely many things I’ve done that could have landed me in jail. I’m sure every time I’ve hurt someone before, it’s left some kind of indelible scar.
But I’m not about to open up the therapy door and let someone in to see that side of me. I’ll shove it down and worry about the consequences later.
For now, I’m trapped in a box surrounded by metal bars, with a stinky alcoholic named Larry who was locked up for public intoxication, and a twink named Jethro who claims to have performed a lewd act in public. Which he recorded on a TikTok Live.Idiot.
My crime? Homicide. But I didn’t fucking do it!
What are the chances someone would get to Timmy before I did?
After all my plotting and planning, someone else took the lead and got there first.
What kind of defense is that, though? “I was going to kill him but someone already did it.” I’m sure there’s an intent to kill crime they could charge me with.
Fuck.
So I stay silent. The detectives occasionally call me into a room and try to have a conversation, but I only reply with, “Lawyer”.
And my lawyer, Mike Larsen, isn’t returning my calls.Fucker.He’s probably swanning off on some vacation using the retainer money me and plenty of other people pour into his bank account month after month. Maybe I picked the wrong profession. Being a defense lawyer to assholes like me seems more lucrative.
A FEW HOURS LATER
Mike walks into the interrogation room like he owns the place, his pinstripe suit immaculate, his briefcase gleaming under the harsh lights. “Sorry for the delay,” he says, sliding into the chair across from me. “Family obligations.”
“No problem,” I mutter. “Thanks for coming.”
He continues. “Wife dragged me out to a cocktail party, some charity event she helped organize. They work to give homeless people teeth or something like that. You know how it is.”
I quirk a brow, disinterested and slightly confused. “Great. Can you get me out of here now?”
He smirks. “Let’s see what we’re working with.” He adjusts his cufflinks and leans in. “So, what the hell happened? Start from the top.”
I give him the rundown, starting with my intent to kill Timmy and ending with the tragic realization that Phil had beaten me to it.
Mike whistles low. “That’s... a unique one, even for me. Let me guess—you didn’t kill anyone, but the cops found you at the scene with a bag full of tools that scream ‘premeditated murder,’ connected the dots to Margaux, and assumed you killed them both out of revenge?”
I nod. “Pretty much.”
“And you have no witnesses, no alibi, nothing to prove you didn’t do it?”
“Nothing but the truth,” I say bitterly.
Mike shakes his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, you’re honest, I’ll give you that. Alright, let’s focus on shifting suspicion back onto Phil. He’s the one who actually did it, right?”
“Has to be,” I say. “The guy’s been enabling Timmy his entire life. He probably snapped.”
“Wow, filicide—or in this case, Philicide,” Mike lets out a low whistle. “We don’t see that often, but when we do, it tends to be a crime of passion. He must have pissed his dad off real bad for him to kill his own flesh and blood.”
“I know. It’s horrible. But this guy deserved to die. He was a piece of shit, abusing his fiancée. Cheating on her, accusing her of doing all the horrible things he was actually doing to her. Financially exploitative. And so cunning and manipulative… like a derelict loser hiding behind a charming facade. He had to go.”
“Well, it sounds like the world didn’t lose a hero.”
“That’s an understatement.”