April 15th, 2014, 5:48PM. Two years after Bill Collins’ death.

    The last of my late husband’s money is finally gone. Gentle music fills the atmosphere at the charity dinner, and my dress shimmers in the light of the chandelier. It’s a comfortable light-green dress, with a gauzy, cream-colored shawl over it. It’s lovely, and doesn’t show off my body too much. The patrons around me laugh as they eat, and I chat with the founder of the organization across from me.

    “You are quite the generous and virtuous woman, Mrs. Collins,” she says.

    “I just wanted to give back to the world a little. It was the least I could do.”

    “Well, I wouldn’t say three million dollars is just a little,” she laughs, “The women’s shelter will benefit so much from your kindness. I can’t stop thinking about all the things we could do now that we have the funding.” We sit and eat quietly. “Alright, I have to know. What made you give away your husband’s wealth?”

    I put down my utensils and think for a moment. “To be honest, I never liked being rich. I hated almost everything about it. Donating the money freed me. Now, I have to know, what are your plans for the shelter?”

    “We’ve been working on a program to help women out of abusive relationships. With your donation, we’ll easily have the momentum to get it started.” A smile warms my face.

April 15th, 2013, 3:06PM. One year after Bill Collins’ death.

    I take a step through the door and breathe in the aroma of the new house. The suburban town is friendly and adorable. I walk through the rooms slowly, picturing what they will look like once everything is set up. The cream walls with wooden floors, the soft carpet in the living room, the large window to look over the porch and the backyard, the cute garden framing the front door, everything is lovely. The old mansion had been fairly easy to sell, and trading it in for this perfect house is the best decision I’ve ever made. I can be truly happy here.

    There’s boxes of my possessions covering the only chair in the house, waiting to be unpacked. After finding my laptop, I sit on the floor and start to look up charities and organizations to give money to. I feel my chest tighten as I wonder if people will notice my sudden want to get rid of my inheritance, if I will look suspicious. I push those thoughts away, my paranoia is in the past. I have to find the right places to put the money, places that I can give back to to apologize for everything that Bill has done. He was always a bit cruel, he never cared much about how he treated anyone that he thought was below him. A charity catches my eye in the search list. An organization that helps people fight back against workplace discrimination. Perfect.

    Two hours later, I have a list of six charities to donate money to. My feet have fallen asleep, so I’m trying to finish up this list as fast as possible. I scroll down a list of local charities online, and stop. One catches my eye. A women’s shelter, based in this area. It will be the largest donation, and the finale of disposing of the money. I can finally live a modest life, comfortable, happy, and free. Best of all, all of my husband’s wrongdoings will finally be paid for. I will finally feel okay again.

April 18th, 2012, 10:23AM. Three days after Bill Collins’ death.

    The funeral service is, admittedly, beautiful. I spared no expense for Bill. I wanted to care, even if he didn’t deserve it. The church smells stuffy, although the many bouquets of flowers contradict that. I try not to look at the display of pictures across the room, memories of Bill frozen in time and framed artistically.

    I shake hands with teary friends and family members, and exchange empty sentiments about how much we’ll miss Bill, or how he’s in a better place now. I’m in a haze, my thoughts of regret and fear following me around. I’m supposed to mingle with others after I greet everyone, but I can’t force myself to do it. I hide next to a table covered in hors d'oeuvres. My thoughts keep butting in, filling my mind with paranoia and worry. I’m nervously picking at my fingernails. Stop worrying! Bill would say that you shouldn't pick at your nails because they won’t look nice, I think. Hold on, is that Bill’s mother? She’s definitely looking at me weird. I know it. Do I look too nervous? Or not sad enough? My mother-in-law, who was clouding my thoughts with paranoia, turns to the group she’s with. Oh, thank God, they were talking about the decor. Maybe I should move away from this table.

    I duck my head and briskly make my way through the crowd, trying to get out unnoticed.

April 15th, 2012, 9:36PM. Twenty-three minutes after Bill Collins’ death.

    The interrogation room of the police station is small, bland, and quiet. Halogen lights hum and flicker overhead, and the muffled sounds of a phone ringing and people talking sneak their way in from the front desk. I can barely hear those sounds though, my thoughts are too loud. Bill is dead. Oh God, my husband is dead. Did I put away the wine and cleaning spray before I left? What are Bill’s friends doing right now? Are the police going to question them too? Oh God. My husband is really dead.

    The officer opens the door and takes a seat. “Mrs. Collins?” I nod. “Why don’t you tell me what happened tonight,” He says. His stare is cold as ice, and the circles around his eyes tell me just how tired he is. I take a shivering breath and wipe at the makeup running down my face.

    “Bill had some friends over, and they were all talking in the living room. He asked me to get him some wine, and a bit after I’d given it to him, I heard yelling.” My voice sounds so weak and fragile, like it could shatter at any moment. I pause for a moment, looking down at my hands where my fingers are fast at work picking at my nails and cuticles.

    “What happened after that?” The officer prompts.

    “I went into the living room, and Bill was slumped over in his chair. Two of his friends were next to him, trying to wake him up. I picked up the phone and called the police right after that.”

    “Right. Anything else? Did anything out of the ordinary happen before that?”

    “No, nothing else weird happened.” My hands were shaking now. “It was a completely normal evening, nothing else happened. I’m sure.” The officer looked at me intensely, but continued the questions.

    “How much wine did he have?”

    “A few glasses, maybe five or six. He was starting to get drunk before”--My voice catches--“Before everything.”

    “Alright. What were you doing while he was with his friends?”

    “Well, I was just laying low in the kitchen. I would get more wine for them every once in a while, but I was checking my phone and sitting around. It was just that. Just sitting around. Nothing more.” The officer looks at me sternly again, and I hold my breath instinctively. After a moment he breaks his gaze and nods, motioning that it is okay for me to go now.

    A warm smile spreads across my face as soon as I’m out in the parking lot. The night air fills my lungs as I hop into the car. I’m free.

April 15th, 2012, 8:37PM. Thirty-six minutes before Bill Collins’ death.

    I come to the living room at my husband’s call. “Yes, dear?”

    “Another round of Cabernet. Any more for you, gentlemen?” He gestures to his friends. None of them seem interested in the wine. One of them is interested in looking at my legs.

    “Of course, dear. I’ll have it out in a moment,” I say, faking a warm smile. I turn and tug at the back of the scandalously-short dress that Bill picked out for me. He says that he knows best, that he knows what’s appropriate to wear. I try to believe him.

    I make it to the kitchen and my pleasant expression dissolves like salt in hot water. I steady my breath and reach for the bottle of wine. My eyes cloud up with tears, threatening to roll over and smudge my perfectly done up face. No, no crying now, I think to myself, Bill says that he needs you to wear your makeup like this when he has friends over. He needs you to be beautiful. It will only be a few more hours. You can handle a few more hours of being welcoming to them. I reach for a napkin and dab at my eyes. I grab the bottle again.

    Walking back to the living room, I tug the skirt of my dress down before presenting myself to the group.“...and I said, it’s her fault for wearing that risque outfit- Ah, thank you Angela,” I smile politely and pretend I didn’t hear whatever joke Bill was telling. I push down the gross feeling crawling up my spine and hurry off.

    The tile floor of the kitchen is cold underneath me. I take another swig from the bottle of Cabernet. My thoughts wander, and I daydream about living in a little, modest house with no rich friends to deal with. I respond to Bill’s call and take his glass to fill it again, but the daydream shatters when I get back to the kitchen. I’m really crying now, not even trying to hold it in. I keep my sobs quiet to not alert the company in the living room. My chest is tight and shudders with every breath. My hands shake, but I try to pour the wine anyways. It spills on the floor.

    I look in the cabinet for the cleaning solution. The good, expensive kind that is so concentrated that it only takes a little dribble to clean a mess. I crack open the cap to the pungent scent of harsh chemicals and a fake, flowery perfume. As I’m cleaning the spill, the warning labels on the bottle catch my eye. I’m most certainly not thinking straight. The bright yellow caution messages gives me a sick idea. Bill is drunk, he likely wouldn’t notice a slightly different flavor in his wine. I could be happy, I could right all the wrong he has done in his lifetime. It would only take a little bit.