Sherri Taylor wiped the sweat from her brow and wondered if the hole was deep enough. Daylight grew dim, as the sun tucked itself away behind the hills. She glanced at the neighbor's house and realized time was running out. They worked in Costrel about 20 miles away; both would arrive home a little after nightfall. Overcome by her desperate need to get rid of the body, she ignored her aching arms and dug until satisfied with the depth. With a nod of approval, she turned and walked into the house.
Oliver lay sprawled across the middle of the kitchen floor, surrounded by the mess left by the overturned table. His blood oozed into the unpaid bills and the cream chicken casserole. She hadn't meant to kill her husband, not really. The untouched rat poison, she'd bought six months ago, proved she'd thought about it. But she hadn't used it.
She'd never forget the eerie feeling that rushed through her as he flipped through the mail, one letter at a time. She'd placed his dinner on the table, hoping to distract him, but it was too late. When he stopped, she knew he'd found the doctor bill. She scolded herself for not intercepting it, but he had to find out sometime. If he'd taken the time to look at her growing stomach, he'd already know.