I Really Did Love Her

Story contains themes of death, manipulation, crime.

I have to be missing something… 

The dead man slumped against the shower wall had not slipped and hit his head. I felt it in my bones—the whole thing was amiss. I scanned the room with a keen eye, notepad at the ready. 

A shiver trickled down my spine, and I drew in a breath despite the humid air. Pushing my glasses hard against the bridge of my nose, I forced myself to focus.

Some say my years seeing the worst sides of humanity made me jaded and insensitive. In reality, sights like these haunted me. Every moment not laser-focused on my job was plagued with images the average Joe couldn’t fathom.

Pale bodies.

Blood spatter.  

Horrific wounds. 

There had been a struggle, evident from the overturned towel rack and puddle of lavender-scented shampoo pooling onto the floor. By the time we’d found the victim, the steamy air had cooled. 

Little beads of condensation dripped off of a potted monstera on the countertop—a silent witness to something it could not comprehend. It reminded me of a plant my girlfriend had bought for my apartment a few days ago. Boy, did I love that plant… I needed to be diligent right now, not distracted by my looming proposal and beautiful soon-to-be-fiancée. 

Shaking my head in frustration, I zeroed back in on the task at hand. 

The deceased was an unremarkable man—brown hair, suntanned skin. He looked to have been nearly done showering when the murderer entered. 

“He’s been ID’d, Detective. Found his drivers license on the nightstand. Oscar Lazaro, age thirty-eight—according to our systems, he has a clean record. No close family, two ex-wives. Just an average citizen.” 

Deputy Clark continued to prattle on with theories as I scrubbed at the graying stubble on my chin with my non-gloved hand. 

“It’s possible he interrupted a robbery,” said Clark. 

I groaned internally. How did I know this wasn’t some burglary-gone-wrong?

Well, as I was examining his twisted form, I noticed his hand. The fingers were contorted in a very unusual position.

It was the one thing about this scene that looked entirely intentional. 

There was a smear of crimson from where the arm had originally landed. Poor mister Lazaro must’ve had just enough strength to move it. The now-frozen index finger pointed straight at the glass shower door. 

I sat bolt upright—the puzzle pieces in my mind clicking into place. I shooed the team toward the fringes of the room, examining everything in the path of that hand. 

It couldn’t have been the mirror, as that was off to the left. There had been nothing but the glass and the empty wall behind it. 

But I was just too good a detective. I’d caught an area where the light wasn’t hitting the pane quite the same. So I closed the door and turned the showerhead on as hot as it would go. Everyone had waited on bated breath, my own heart had pounded with an emotion I couldn’t quite name.

At first, nothing. 

But then the glass began to fog up, and finally—bingo! 

Nearly invisible words ghosted into existence before my eyes. Mr. Lazaro had presumably written them in the condensation before his legs had given out. And just then, when the steam collected, they reappeared in all their morbid glory. 

I’d twisted the knob, shutting off the water, and snapped a picture of the writing. “Sam Mur—” was all it said, a line dragging down from the end, probably from when he collapsed. 

There must be hundreds of Sam Mur-whatevers in this city…

Sam, Samuel, Samantha, Sammy. 

Murdoch, Murano, Murray. 

The possibilities were endless. I knew two people myself who could fit onto the list of suspects. One being my hairdresser, who was a ‘Sammi Murrell’. The other was, to my slight amusement, my girlfriend—Samantha Murphy. 

I didn’t want to think of it being either woman, but with a lead like this, it would be crazy not to start with the people I knew…

***

The next morning, I rose from my firm mattress, stretching until my spine crackled satisfyingly. My bare feet hit the cold hardwood, and I winced, shuffling along until I found my slippers. Despite having a dreamless and uninterrupted sleep, the nagging dread in my gut immediately made me nauseous. 

I sent a quick text to Samantha while frothing up oat milk for my morning latte. Despite the other officers joking that I enjoyed “frilly coffees” over a “manly” cup of straight black coffee, I enjoyed my little cups of luxury. After all, who would want to start their day with an acidic, burning hot cup of dirt water? Not me… 

My phone pinged with a response. 

Samantha: Good morning, honey. Can’t meet at BG’s this morning, running late to work. 

Me: That’s alright, maybe we can catch lunch. Your place? I have an hour off.

Samantha: Dang roommate made a mess, can’t have ya over. sorry babe, xoxo

Then a moment later—

Samantha: Please don’t bring me any more of these bagels, they’re not good… 

I sighed, plunking the phone down next to my large fish tank. Closing my eyes, I let the steady hum of the filter numb my whirring mind. My little blue beta did circles around his hide, oblivious to the world beyond his enclosure. 

As I slipped into my freshly starched uniform, my thoughts wandered again. 

At first, when I saw that name in the glass, a connection between a homicide and the love of my life was an impossibility. But sitting here, lacing up my perfectly shined shoes, the events of the past few months played like a film reel. 

Samantha had been acting strangely. I’d begun to wonder if she was having some kind of psychological breakdown. I had tried my best to be kind about it.

She’d been behaving erratically, bouncing off the walls one moment and viciously shouting at strangers passing my window the next. The detective in me had suspected drug use. But when I asked her, she vehemently denied ever using substances. 

Life had not been the kindest to her, growing up in the foster care system. My poor girl carried a lot on her shoulders. 

Being the supportive and doting boyfriend I am, I did all I could to help her relax. I’d purchased her a massage (which she’d jumped up from midway through…) and was always bringing her snacks, and many an iced cinnamon cold brew. As a last-ditch effort, I’d even gifted her a set of relaxation and sleep-aid CDs. So far, she only seemed to be getting worse. 

Ordinarily I would’ve immediately dismissed the possibility straightaway. I knew Samantha… I loved her. But her behavior, paired with the name on the glass? Maybe her past was worth a second look… 

***

A few days had passed since my initial look at Oscar Lazaro’s body. As with all my cases, my thoughts had become obsessive. 

My phone trilled out a series of dissonant chimes, yanking me out of my stupor. I tugged it from my pocket, nearly knocking my plate of yellow curry and rice off the table. 

“Hello, Detective Gibson. This is Christine Wallis. Got your voicemail. How can I help ya?” 

The woman had a throaty, intense accent. It grated a little on my ears, but I pressed onward. 

“Ah, yes. Glad to finally connect with you. My condolences regarding your ex-husband’s passing. I have a few questions about the daughter you placed for adoption.” As far as I knew, the woman on the line had no idea I was romantically involved with said daughter. She let out an audible groan before replying. 

“Yeah, what’s it to ya? Haven’t heard from her aside from one call a few months back. She was a raving loon. Hope ya didn’t have to deal with ‘er.” 

I rolled my eyes, glad she couldn’t see me. I knew her daughter, and Samantha was anything but a raving loon. She was just…struggling right now.

“Ma’am, can you tell me anything about your conversation? Did she mention where she was living, working, or any other details? It would really help our investigation.” 

“Not much,” she huffed. “She asked if I knew who her father was. I told ‘er about Oscar and why I had to give her up. Then she asked why I didn’t look for ‘er as she grew. I told her ‘I thought you were dead’ and she hung up. It was all I could think to say.” 

I pursed my lips, absentmindedly swirling my curry with my spoon. 

“Alright, thank you for your time. If you remember anything else, don’t hesitate to call back or contact the station.” 

She didn’t respond. There was a click, and the line went silent. 

***

It felt like forever since I’d spent some quality time with my girl. Thankfully, the stars had aligned for us to be alone tonight. 

It had been a peaceful evening. I’d whipped up a homemade Alfredo while she buttered French bread, filling me in on all the office gossip from the call center where she worked. Occasionally, she’d blurt out something bizarre—moving on before I could respond.

Her hand was warm in mine as we sat side by side on the couch, taking in the sunset through my bay-view window. 

A shiver of anxiety and anticipation wormed its way into my chest as I prepared to ask what I’d been thinking about all night. 

“Sam, can I ask you a question?” I kept my voice steady and even. 

She reached up to adjust my glasses and offered a timid smile. 

“Of course, babe. I’m an open book.”

At that, I hesitated. Was she? Maybe not about what I had to say…

 “What did you know about Oscar Lazaro?” I stared straight ahead, all too aware of her wide-eyed shock in my periphery. 

 “I, uh—what?” She stammered. “You mean, your latest homicide victim?”

  “One and the same,” I replied. 

She dropped my hand like it was a wasp that had stung her. I turned to look at her now, noting that her pupils had blown wide enough to consume nearly all of her crystal-blue irises. 

“I didn’t know him.”

She was lying. I knew she would, at first. The familiar thrill of an interrogation stirred in my stomach. 

“You can tell me the truth. Let’s just be honest. I got the results back from the scene. There was a partial print.” My voice remained at a velvet-smooth whisper. I cupped her cheek in my hand, willing her to speak with my gaze. “You’re safe. I know you were there, just admit it. I can protect you.”

Samantha’s bottom lip began to quiver. I watched—almost amused—as fear, confusion, and defensiveness fought for control on her features. There was a long, tense silence before she spoke. 

“You know I’d never hurt anyone on purpose,” she said. Perspiration gathered at her hairline. “I don’t know what happened, honestly. My memories are so hazy. I remember…shouting? I can still hear the shower running. I went there to confront him about what he did to me. But I don’t remember what happened.” 

“Have you been blacking out again? Is it possible you did this to Mr. Lazaro?” My thumb stroked away the tears streaming down her cheeks. 

“I—I don’t know. I’m afraid, Jamie. I’m afraid of what I’ve done. Oscar, he—he deserved it. Deserved everything coming to him,” she whispered, a dangerous edge creeping into her voice. “You have to help me.” 

The urgency in her voice melted the triumph I’d felt at her confession. I nodded, and simply pressed a tender kiss to her forehead. 

***

Several months later, the sharp scent of disinfectant stung my nose as I entered the cinderblock interrogation room. With conclusive lab-tested evidence of her presence, and a very compelling motive, it was a cinch. 

The room she’d been placed in was stifling, despite its general emptiness. I didn’t sit. Simply placed my palms against the cold metal table. Samantha’s tears were of disbelief, frustration, and anger. I mean, I couldn’t blame her. 

Now she denied every accusation, despite what she’d told me months earlier. Of course she did. Who wouldn’t, under the duress of being interrogated for homicide? 

And yet… 

“Jamie Gibson, look at me. There has to be something you can do!”

Her tears appeared so desperate—so genuine. But I knew when she was lying. 

Honestly, I struggled to name how I was feeling. To think my sweet Samantha would murder someone… 

Any other suspects we’d vetted had solid alibis. Either there was no traceable connection to the dead man, or they were deceased.

The best part was? I knew something she didn’t. I had fingerprints from the scene, which she knew about. And unbeknownst to her, a recording of her confession. Every frightened plea, every whispered word—captured on a recorder in my pocket. 

It had been done slowly, painstakingly, so as to not ruin our tender moment. 

She had nobody in her corner. That is, until she met me. Until this whole case unfolded, I had planned to propose to her on our vacation to Fiji. And I loved her—really I did. But there was no turning back anymore. 

The captain had nearly pulled me off the case for my potential conflict of interest. Luckily, I’d learned of a less-than-professional affair he was having. The last thing he wanted was the missus finding out, and he was very willing to…negotiate. 

So here I was. Facing the love of my life. A million strands of the spiderweb in my mind finally connected. And I had to ask one final time. 

“Samantha Leanne Murphy.” My voice was low and strained. I played it like she was breaking me—like I was on the verge of tears. “Did you or did you not attack and murder Oscar Lazaro, your ex-stepfather, on Thursday evening?” 

I dialed the pleading in my eyes up a notch—practically begging for her to tell me how wrong I was. 

However, the denial didn’t come.  

“Fine! I think—I did it,” she sobbed. “You would never understand. He didn’t want me. That man made my own mother turn her back on me. I lived with strangers for all the memorable years of my life.”

 “Miss Murphy. I need to understand how you ended up in the house of the deceased.” My tone shifted to a clipped, unmistakable cold. I never asked a question I didn’t already know the answer to.

 She sucked in a ragged breath, her hands clenched so tightly that her knuckles were purple against the moon-white of her skin. The cuffs clinked against the laminate tabletop with every quiver. 

But as she turned those clear blue eyes up to meet mine, the look of utter despair shifted. Tendrils of unnerving tranquility snaked in to cover up the fear, and inch by inch, the girl I knew melted away as the weight of her confession lifted off her shoulders. 

“I think you know exactly how I got there, Detective Gibson.” Her voice was so quiet I had to lean in toward her—partly to angle my concealed mic in her direction and partly for my own hearing. Each word came out in its own breath, my name nearly a hiss on her lips. “What did you think? That I never had you over because of my roommate, or because of the mess? No…it was because you would’ve questioned why I lived in a dusty, rat-infested attic. I heard the thud. I know I was there, but—it was like I was floating out of my body, the voices in my head so loud I couldn’t distinguish what was real and what wasn’t.” 

My body fizzled with the emotion I’d been feeling all along, and could finally put a name to. Satisfaction pricked at my brain—going from every follicle on my head, all the way down to the shiny leather of my shoes. I couldn’t believe it. Or, to tell the truth, yes I could. The verbal confirmation was all that I needed, to seal the deal. 

“So it is your admission then, that you lived in squalor, squatting in Mr. Lazaro’s residence for several months? And your testimony remains that you continue to suffer from intense hallucinations? Samantha. Do you think you orchestrated his death?”

She only nodded. Despite the hesitation in her gaze, she could do nothing but agree. She trusted me, just a bit too much. 

The girl I loved—a cold-blooded killer. In her mind, anyway. 

Scrunching my eyes shut, I spun on my heel and left the room.

With the steel door firmly shut behind me, I finally let out the animal caged in my chest. I didn’t care that I wouldn’t be the one to drag her away in cuffs. I didn’t care that I wouldn’t get to marry the girl of my dreams. 

I was beaming.  

I could’ve skipped down the station’s hallway. Not because any of this was good for Samantha. But because I had proved that I could do it.  

That night, I sat by my little fireplace, watching the monstera plant burn to ash. Alongside it, my meticulously-kept notepad and the leftover drugged bagels. The “sleep aid” CDs had already been melted into one large lump. The recordings they’d contained swirled out the ventilation system. It had taken far less effort than I’d thought.

It was both strange and exhilarating watching every notion of our connection become lost to the wind. I slept like a baby that night—grinning like a fool—knowing that I had pulled off the impossible.