PROLOGUE

GERMANI

October 11, 2007

9:58 p.m.

The fateful call came in. 

The credits to a re-run episode of Grey's Anatomy had begun to play. 

I didn't answer on the first ring. 

I was too busy wallowing in aggravation and exhaustion as I devoured a plate full of grease-laden buffalo wings and mozzarella sticks.

My husband, Scott's, porn obsession was wearying me out.  Nothing I said or did seemed to matter.  My feelings of confusion, shame, loneliness and rejection were ignored by the man I vowed to love unconditionally; wasted on deaf ear like a bruised apple tumbling from a windblown tree. 

Scott's attention was consumed by sexual images on his computer from the Internet, DVD's from the local sex shops, and those videos from Pay-Per-View.  It was more than I could handle.  More than I knew how to deal with.  Maybe if he acknowledged how bad things were, we wouldn't be at ends.  Maybe.  But he kept making excuses; justifying his actions at the expense of our family. 

There's only so much understanding that a woman can give before...enough becomes enough. 

It brought to mind when I saw a colorful logo on the bumper sticker of a Yugo parked at the grocery store that read 'SEX SELLS'.  Made me think it was too bad that same statement didn't come with a warning.

Sex kills too.

The phone's ringing interrupted my sulking.

I was willing to let that call go to voicemail, but curiosity compelled me to answer just from the phone number flashing across my television. 

“Germani?” an anguished voice cracked after I answered.

The caller on the other end of the line was familiar, but sounded in worse condition than I felt.  I couldn't put my finger on it.  There was no other definition to describe the conversation beyond peculiar.  When the caller made a shocking confession I saw warning signs and red flags go up all around me. 

I put the caller on hold while I went to the bathroom to wash the remnants of my meal from my greasy hands.  The caller needed better advice than I could give.  I was clueless on how I'd help 'em with my own thoughts all messed up.  But I knew I had to do something.  On the way back to the family room I grabbed a New King James Bible off the bookshelf near the computer center and flipped through as I walked.  I tried to find the right words amongst the pages as my mind drew blanks.  By the time I made it back to the phone with Bible in clean hands, a busy signal blared through and the caller was gone. 

My heart quickened as I thought about what to do next.

10:41 p.m.

Blood

There was blood everywhere when I made it to the caller's home.  Deep crimson streaks that saturated vanilla satin sheets and rained burgundy droplets onto the Persian area rug beneath the bed. 

I stood planted against the door frame like a wisteria vine attached to aluminum siding.  I was too afraid to step in the room and too disturbed to walk away. 

Music was playing.  The eighties song “Real Love” by a group named Skyy ended.  An eerie silence penetrated the air for just a few seconds.  The song began to play again.  Somebody had put it on repeat.

Don’t be afraid of the way you feel. 

Fear came quickly.  I was too late. 

I couldn't think as my eyes stayed locked on the crimson streaks, mesmerized like a teenager on an acid trip.  Dazed and stunned, my lips slowly opened as my brain processed.  I was in the middle of a gory crime scene and somebody was dead...murdered.  Suddenly terror filled the once irritated space of my abdomen where aggravation was devoured by panic and I screamed at the top of my lungs.