Murder: A Perfect

He checked his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. 7:52 PM. She would be here soon. His wife, Elara, was a creature of habit, a woman who organized her spice rack alphabetically and considered a missed reservation a personal betrayal. That predictability, which had once charmed him, was now the very mechanism of her undoing.

And froze.

Elara spoke, her voice flat and hollow. “You were right, Marco. He’s been planning this for weeks. The texts, the hotel… he wanted us to be the crime scene.” A Perfect Murder

It was a picture of Julian. Three nights ago. Leaving the apartment of a woman named Claire, his own secret lover. He checked his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes