- Media News
- Live TV
- Video News
- African Movies
- Music Videos
- Old Videos
- Music Albums
- Music Releases
- Photo Gallery
- Your Photos
Love At Second Sight— A Short Novel (read For Free)Chapter One
They were asking questions upon questions, gradually and craftily, leading me to the point of voluntary confession. I almost did. I held out, however. I was chief suspect in the case, but nobody caught me with bloodied hands, and no one was going to cull out a confession from my lips.
I was innocent until proven guilty. But the two thaw-faced police detectives were doing a damn good job at it, and I had to calm myself from within and not let the apprehension and tension become evident on my face. Hell! They were after evidences.
“You said the quarrels between you and the deceased were just girlish banters, Miss. Coldhart?” the more handsome of the two resumed.
“Indeed,” said I.
“How came you both once exchanging slaps then?”
“Things boiled over at the time,” said I.
“And spilled onto the bathroom floor?” the less handsome detective jumped in. How I wished I could have grabbed his thick neck and strangle it like I did that bitch of a girl. She was a boyfriend snatcher, and the ugly-faced detective looked like a brother of hers. He was driving me nuts with his unorthodox attempt to force a confession out of me.
I, nevertheless, maintained my cool and remained silent. If he was trying to take my innocent answer to a question, furnish it with a parochial but pretty continuation, and connect it to the murder in an allusion to the blots of blood found on the bathroom floor then he was in for a game. I wasn't budging. Not in a million years.
That girl was stupid enough to fall onto pieces of broken mirror on the bathroom floor as she swooned into the ever ready arms of death. Curse her.
“And spilled onto the bathroom floor?” he really repeated the question, big-headed at his flash-in-the—pan witticism and clever questioning. How I wished I had a lawyer around to lecture him on the inappropriateness of asking such prejudicial questions while interrogating a mere suspect. Yes, a mere suspect. I didn't do it. I was innocent until proven guilty. Keep that in mind.
“Answer the question, Miss. Coldhart,” the handsome one said with a handsome smile.
“I am unable to answer,” said I.
The ugly cop flashed an ugly smile, perused his writing pad, and came up with the deadliest question of all—one I wasn't prepared for. He knew it. Curse him.
I remained silent, thinking fast and furious. Hell. For the first time in my life, I wished that I had never felt anything for Peter. I wished that I had never laid eyes on Peter Hectorelite. Damn.
by Stanley Courage Dugah
Posted by: Stanley Courage Dugah