Quitting Time

There are all kinds of ways for a person to tell an interrogator they are guilty, without ever speaking a word. She was exhibiting none of these tells. Nobody was going to ask me, because I was the bad guy here, but it looked to me like she was in shock.

Posture rigid, her forearms were resting on the table and her fingers had folded together loosely. The handcuffs were so much gaudy, fake jewelry on her slim, aristocratic wrists.

"Tell me what happened." Quiet in tone, even I was tired of asking to hear the story. The details were the same each time.

If she was lying, she exhibited superior skill.

Again, she told me of how he had beat her. How he had been beating her for years. Again she told me the tale of how last night he had pushed her.

"When did you pick up the knife, do you remember?"

"I don't remember." This record skipped at the same point each time.

Lifting her head, she found my gaze and held it.

"He made me do it." Part of me unequivocally believed her.

Exhaustion was gnawing at me. I wanted to put my head down and sleep. Right here. I was that tired.

"I don't understand. Tell me how he made you stab him." I put special emphasis on certain words. I had done so the last half a dozen times. It hadn't mattered then, it didn't matter this time. Looking me right in the eye, she spoke the again.

"I was defending myself. He ran into the knife." There was not a stutter, no hesitation. No tremor. Nothing to tell me she was lying.

"Six times?" I said, my voice a whisper. I didn't expect her to answer.

"He never did know when to quit."

Word Count: 300