Denny's Tenny-Personal Narrative
Denny felt like saying, ‘Heey, I don’t know a thing!’ But what could he do? He had to answer something. “Well, I don’t really know much of anything.”
“Fair enough. Fair enough. Now to be clear. I am asking you about your ex-wife’s murder. You do understand that?”
“Yeah.”
“Now, I have to ask this too. Dennis, did you murder your ex-wife?”
Denny could feel his face flushing. “Of course I didn’t.”
“Do you know who did?”
“No.”
The detective nodded. “Is there anyone you suspect killed her?”
Denny had to think about that. Powell was such a sleazy sex addict. Who knew what kind of bondage & submission trash he might’ve done with her. But God, he needed to be careful. “No. No one.”
“Who would you say had the best opportunity to kill her?”
“God, I don’t …show more content…
He popped into a bar down the street from the police station and bought a pint of whiskey. He frowned. What about all his ‘I’ll never drink again’ resolutions of just a few hours ago? The blood on his pillow, his sheets. The scratches, the bump on his head. God, Rashida being murdered. Yeah, what was he thinking? He couldn’t get drunk again, but at this point, there was only one chance to bail on the booze. His AA sponsor. George S.
He had George’s number in his phone still. The biggest part of him—the part of him that wanted to get drunk—didn’t want to call in the worst way, but calling was the right thing to do. But the bottle of whiskey in his coat pocket was also calling, claiming it was the right thing to do. He started the car. Yeah, the bottle was waiting for him. Promising peace. Promising relief. Killing his mind. He pulled back onto Grand Avenue and nabbed his phone. He toggled to ‘George S.’ and hit the ‘call’ button. If George answered, it was destiny that he shouldn’t drink. If he didn’t, it was party time.
It was only four-thirty but already getting dark. Chicago winters always wore everybody’s nerves thin. Sunlight and Vitamin D deficiency and no lack of depression. The phone rang five times. He wasn’t leaving a message. He went to hit the end button and heard a
“Fair enough. Fair enough. Now to be clear. I am asking you about your ex-wife’s murder. You do understand that?”
“Yeah.”
“Now, I have to ask this too. Dennis, did you murder your ex-wife?”
Denny could feel his face flushing. “Of course I didn’t.”
“Do you know who did?”
“No.”
The detective nodded. “Is there anyone you suspect killed her?”
Denny had to think about that. Powell was such a sleazy sex addict. Who knew what kind of bondage & submission trash he might’ve done with her. But God, he needed to be careful. “No. No one.”
“Who would you say had the best opportunity to kill her?”
“God, I don’t …show more content…
He popped into a bar down the street from the police station and bought a pint of whiskey. He frowned. What about all his ‘I’ll never drink again’ resolutions of just a few hours ago? The blood on his pillow, his sheets. The scratches, the bump on his head. God, Rashida being murdered. Yeah, what was he thinking? He couldn’t get drunk again, but at this point, there was only one chance to bail on the booze. His AA sponsor. George S.
He had George’s number in his phone still. The biggest part of him—the part of him that wanted to get drunk—didn’t want to call in the worst way, but calling was the right thing to do. But the bottle of whiskey in his coat pocket was also calling, claiming it was the right thing to do. He started the car. Yeah, the bottle was waiting for him. Promising peace. Promising relief. Killing his mind. He pulled back onto Grand Avenue and nabbed his phone. He toggled to ‘George S.’ and hit the ‘call’ button. If George answered, it was destiny that he shouldn’t drink. If he didn’t, it was party time.
It was only four-thirty but already getting dark. Chicago winters always wore everybody’s nerves thin. Sunlight and Vitamin D deficiency and no lack of depression. The phone rang five times. He wasn’t leaving a message. He went to hit the end button and heard a