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The Confession
What do you do with a confession? This thought kept the inspector’s wife up while the world slept. She could hear crickets chirping outside; the moonlight streamed in through the kitchen’s window. She shut the door before turning on her phone’s flashlight. Walking silently into the room, her ears alert for any movement, she retrieved the envelope tucked between the layers of her wrapper. With trembling hands, she took out the letter inside and unfolded it.
She’d read it countless times in the past few hours. And, by now, the words were etched in her memory. Still, the first line made her blood run cold: I killed him. Closing her eyes, she forced herself to take deep breaths. The contents of the letter played through her memory, like a reel in her head. It had been three days since the death of their neighbor. A popular personality, business man, and philanthropist. Such a wonderful man, people had mourned. Such a great loss. She’d felt the same, until a few hours ago when she found the letter inside her handbag.
Reading the letter, the horrific things it detailed made bile rise to her mouth. The illicit affairs, the violence and abuse of his family, the shady business deals, the black magic, the deceit. It all showed how the man was an angel outside but a monster at home, a demon when it’s dark and the world wasn’t watching. In her hands was proof that he was murdered. And she knew the killer.
Her stomach churned, the dinner she’d had earlier rushed up to her throat before settling back, leaving an acidic taste in her tongue. The envelope could only have been slipped inside her bag when she’d gone for condolences earlier that day. There was no other way it could have gotten into her bag. But why would the murderer choose to confess to her of all people? Was it because her husband was a police inspector? Did the murderer want to be turned in? What would happen if she made the letter public? The dead man couldn’t be questioned for his sins. All hands would be pointed at his wife and kids. They’d have to live with the stigma and shame.
She couldn’t do that to them. She wouldn’t be able to live with separating a mother from her children. But was keeping quiet the right thing to do? What do you do with a confession like this? Then the answer came to her as she spotted the matchbox on the counter. You burn it.
About the Author
Sadiya Abdulaziz is a reader, writer and voice-over artist. She has a newsletter on Substack where she shares poetry, reflections and her musings on life. Her poems have been published by Spillwords and Nantygreens.
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