Memorial Day weekend looked good. It wasn’t far off. I could survive the routine of our lives with an end in sight. The date held some irony too. I liked that. It would forever be a time to remember what I’d done and the reasons why I had done it. Years later, while others had fresh strawberry shortcake, I’d savor the memory of making things right. It would be far sweeter than any dessert.

Just desserts. I smiled at my little joke.

I could do this.

Still, I needed help.

I put a big circle around the weekend with a Sharpie.

The next day, Connor stood in his underwear pouring some coffee. When I looked at him, I imagined castration as a solution. I could grab that two-timing cock of his and slice it with a Henckels on the butcher block. While he is writhing around, I’d toss the severed member in the garbage disposal and turn it on.

“Hey, babe,” I said. “Change in plans for the three-day weekend.”

“Crap,” he said, looking at me while I sat across the kitchen in the banquette we’d built together. “You have to work? I already got the time off.”

“No,” I told him. “I’m thinking of somewhere close to home.”

He made a disappointed face.

I wonder how he’d feel if I cut off his nut sack and flung it against the cupboard door.

Splat!

“I was looking forward to Walla Walla.”

“Me too,” I said. “But I’ll find something closer. I don’t want to spend the weekend on the road. The Seattle traffic has really gotten to me. I’m beginning to hate my car.”

He sipped his coffee.

“I hear you on that, babe.”

I hated when he called me that.

“Love you,” I told him as he returned to the bedroom.

Hate you, I thought.

There are a million ways to kill someone. I know that from practicing law. Most people only know about it from TV. Those of us in the profession—on either side of the law-and-order equation—know how to get away with something as egregious as homicide. Be very careful. Trust no one. Tie up loose ends. And never get caught.

No. Never.