Tracy Murrows came home to the voicemail that changed her life.
The rain beat heavily upon the house. The windows shook violently against the wind. I heard nothing. Nothing save the venomous tone of Shelly's voice reaching out from the answering machine.
I pressed replay.
"It's over Tracy. Tim is with me now. Move on with your life."
I pressed it again.
"Tim is with me now. Move on with your life."
"Move on with your life."
Screaming, I wildly tossed the machine off the counter. It crashed against the living room wall. I marched through the adjacent mahogany study; I gently sat at its desk. Removing the Tiffany stationery from the drawers, I quickly scribed a letter -
Don't wait for me.
I'm spending the night with a friend.
I kissed the perfumed paper, leaving behind a blood-red lipstick stain. Tim was sure to see it there.
With grace, I approached the wooden armoire behind me. My fingers swept across its detailed windows as I examined each piece carefully. There she was - the Holland & Holland Royal Ejector shotgun. 12 gauge. 2 1/2" chamber. A London best, indeed.
I looked back at the desk towards the photograph on the far right corner. It was a picture of myself, my Tim, and Shelly.
My fucking boss.
Pausing briefly, I looked down towards my Harry Winston wedding band and took a deep breath. I checked my watch.
August 29th, 2004.
The night I became the Blue Scotts Killer.