Serial Killers: A Narrative Fiction

Tom had been on the go since six O'clock that morning, had confirmed that a brutal rape and murder of a woman was the work of a serial-killer, had interview the victims friends and acquaintances, and spent hours going over phone and computer records, without coming up with one damn piece of evidence, or anything he believed had led him closer to finding a direction in which to turn. The only break, and the only food, he'd gotten all day was the quick lunch with Lila, that had been mostly business, and the Detective was tired, frustrated, and impatient.

The words that slipped out of his mouth, and the accusatory tone that accompanied them was unintended when Lila jumped into his arms, and he eyed the drawer that contained the gun, and he was about to apologise for them, when Lila reacted with anger of her own. To Tom, that was like a red rag to a bull, and the aplogy stopped in his mouth as he dropped his arms, and stepped back from Lila. "Where the fuck have I been. What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
Oh, Tom knew the answer to that question, the argument prior to their marriage where, for the only and only time he'd come close to striking out at her, but instead had managed to contain his anger enough to slam his first into the bedroom mirror instead of his beloved. Her reaction to what had happened had scared him, and the thought that he may have lost her, and he'd been depressed for days afterwards, until they'd made up, and he'd promised it would never, ever happen