Chapter 4My Wife The Murderer

From the pile of tattered clothing, she picked up a half-finished sweater.

It was a men's sweater, grey, and an old-fashioned style, but the stitches were tiny and intricate, showing the effort and care of the knitter.

"This sweater..." she mumbled, a flicker of confusion in her eyes.

"My mother was knitting it," I said calmly.

"She said it was getting colder and she worried I'd be cold. Shame she didn't get to finish it."

Savannah's fingers tightened on the yarn, but she said nothing.

She then picked up the worn leather wallet and opened it.

Tucked into the plastic window was a faded, sepia-toned black and white photo.

It showed a young couple, both beaming, holding a newborn baby.

She didn't recognize the couple.

But the baby... the baby felt unsettlingly familiar.

"Who is...?"

"A picture of me when I was a baby," I said flatly.

Savannah’s brow furrowed deeper. She looked like she wanted to ask something, but in the end, she merely tossed the wallet back into the box.

"Fine. I’ve seen everything."

She stood up, brushing imaginary dust off her suit.

"Ethan, our transaction is finished. We are done."

With that, she didn't look back, click-clacking on her heels as she fled the place that had suffocated her.

I watched her go, then slowly knelt down. I gently gathered the unfinished sweater and the black and white photo, tucking them away safely.

Savannah... did you truly not recognize anything?

Could you really not recognize the sweater your own mother spent half her life knitting for you? Could you not recognize your father’s twenty-year-old wallet?

Did you not recognize the eyes of the baby in the photograph—the eyes you see every morning in the mirror?