The Wife Who Covered for His Murderer

Leora's POV

When he was alive, Owen loved me so much he’d give his life for me. Yet, as for his death, I was as cold as a mere bystander.

At the funeral, his family slapped me, clawed at my throat, called me a man-eating black widow. Every last one of them turned on me, eyes red, demanding the same thing: Who killed Owen?

I didn't say a word.

My ten-year-old son went into cardiac arrest right there and was rushed to the ER — and still I said nothing.

Not until that voice cut through the crowd.

"I killed Owen."

I slowly raised my eyes.

After staying silent for so long… maybe it was finally time to tell the truth.

I knelt on the living room rug, meticulously wiping down my husband Owen's body. The fatal stab wound on his chest was still seeping bloody froth, his flesh torn open.

I changed to a fresh basin of water and wiped the bloody smears from his face. Finally, I reached out, covered his unblinking eyes, and gently brushed the lids closed.

Everything was clean.

I stood up, walked to the kitchen island, poured a glass of ice water, and shook a pill from the bottle.

Without a moment of hesitation, I swallowed it.

Then, I returned to the living room and lay down beside Owen's ice-cold corpse. The pills would take twenty minutes to kick in. I closed my eyes, quietly waiting for someone to raise the curtain on this tragedy.

The moment darkness fell, my mind exploded with the memory of Owen’s final seconds.

The instant the dark figure raised the knife, Owen acts like a beast pushed into a corner, violently throwing himself in front of me to shield me.

"Let her go..." Blood gushed from his mouth as he used his absolute last breath to beg, "Please, let Leora go..."

He protected me until his dying breath.

Owen Hartwell. The most envied real estate heir in Alden, and the flawless husband on everyone's lips.

In all our years of marriage, he treated me like fragile glass.

He remembered that I only drank oat lattes with half a pump of vanilla syrup, exactly at 140 degrees. He remembered I was allergic to lilies; there wasn’t even a tissue with a lily pattern in our house.

Five years ago on New Year's Eve, we were in a multi-car pileup on the interstate.

In the microsecond before the out-of-control truck from the opposite lane slammed into us, Owen yanked the steering wheel, unbuckled his own seatbelt, and threw his body over the passenger seat, pinning me down.

Shattered glass embedded into his back like razors. He got forty-seven stitches. The first thing he said when he woke up was: "Is Leora hurt?"

In everyone's eyes, he was a lunatic driven by sheer devotion to his wife.

But now he was dead. Dead in our living room.

And I had personally washed away every trace the killer left on his body...

"Jesus Christ! Oh my God!"

A shrill scream shredded the morning silence. The drug's heavy fog made it a struggle to even pry my eyelids open.

My mother-in-law Sylvia's scream nearly pierced the roof. Then came the sound of something collapsing to the floor, followed by my father-in-law Douglas's heavy gasping.

"Call the police! Douglas, call 911!"

Ten minutes later, the deafening wail of sirens surrounded the estate.

The paramedics lifted me from the rug. I watched as the zipper closed on the black body bag holding Owen.

"Leora! You cold-blooded bitch!"

Sylvia broke through the police perimeter like a madwoman, her manicured fingers nearly clawing my eyes out.

"What did you do to him?! Speak! Why is my son dead while you don’t have a scratch on you?!"

I leaned against the ambulance, looking at her coldly, saying absolutely nothing.

"Ma'am, step back! Don't ruin the crime scene!" Several officers dragged Sylvia away.

Douglas stood a short distance away, his bespoke suit without a single wrinkle. He looked at me, a profound, calculating darkness hiding in his eyes, and put on a hypocritical front.

"Leora, tell the police, what exactly happened last night? Who did this?" He lowered his voice, carrying an undeniable, authoritative weight.

Just then, soft sobbing echoed from the porch.

It was Owen’s cousin, Faye.

"Leora..." Faye’s voice trembled, tears rolling down her cheeks. "What happened to Owen? What's going on?"

I watched her cowering behind Douglas, looking sickeningly pitiful.

Little Caden seemed traumatized by the blood on the scene, burying his face deep into Faye's embrace.

Right as this theatrical performance reached its climax, a deep, raspy, overwhelmingly imposing voice cut through the chaos.

"Are we done here?"

The crowd automatically parted.

Detective Reid Calloway crunched over the debris.

He slowly walked up to me, his towering frame blocking out all the prying eyes.

"Mrs. Hartwell." Reid's voice was ice. "The scene has been wiped incredibly clean. No weapon. No signs of forced entry or struggle. Your husband was stabbed three times, and you were less than six feet away from him."

He leaned in, his eyes pressing into me with aggressive scrutiny.

"Tell me exactly what happened last night!"

I raised my head, meeting Reid’s suspicious glare.

I smoothed my hair, which was matted with dried blood, and spoke with the detached tone of discussing the weather.

"I had trouble sleeping last night. I took a whole sleeping pill. I slept very deeply, so I don't know what happened."