Sorry I haven't updated in a while! Been so busy with school and work. But I hope you like this

chapter and I'm sorry it's short but I promise the next one will be longer!

"The body was found in your house, the murder weapon had your prints on it, and according to your neighbor you fought with him last night. Hours before he was murdered...something about him having an affair?" I flinched and a slow, smug smile made it's way on FBI agent David Sinclair's face. So why don't you just stop with the innocent act because you're not fooling anyone."

What exactly was I supposed to say? I had declared my innocent a thousand times and yet they didn't believe me. They had proof, hard evidence, that I was the killer. But I wasn't. I would never kill my husband. Sure he was a lying cheating bastard, but I still loved him. But I had to admit things weren't looking so good for me. "I would never kill Jacob. I love him." I glared at Agent Sinclair wanting to smack the smirk off his face. "Well he didn't love you." Ouch. But I knew that already, I just liked to pretend that it wasn't true. Agent Sinclair slid a picture of a woman in front of me and asked, "Do you recognize this woman?" I glanced over at the picture, "No. Why?" My breath caught in my throat as I heard him say, "That's the woman you're husband's been sleeping with."

I looked over at the picture again. This time really looking at it. Going over every detail. I never knew who the mysterous woman was. Never really cared to know. But now that her picture was in front of me, and her name and work position were probably available also, I wanted to know. Badly. I wanted to know about the woman that stole my husband from me. "Susan Santiago." She was hispanic. In the picture her white teeth stood out from her tan flawless skin (dimples were evident), her long black hair billowed behind her as she stood in a field of sunflowers. Her yellow dress thigh length dress with pink flowers flew up in the wind. Her hands were holding the hem of her dress down. She was struck in a Marilyn Monroe pose. She was beautiful compared to me. No wonder my husband didn't want me. He had her.

I shoved the picture away in disgust and crossed my arms, turning my head to the side, willing tears not to fall. I wouldn't cry. Not here. Not now. Not in front of Agent Sinclair. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.