BREAKING NEWS: FAMOUS AUTHOR EVELINE PETERSON FOUND DEAD.

This seemed to be the talk of the century. Obviously it was an enormous incident for me, but did all of these people really care so much? They were not her husband, nor were they major crime detectives who were surrounded by coworkers investigating their wife’s case in front of their very eyes. I know enough about people to see right through them. People don’t truly care what happens in the world around them unless it affects them, they pretend to care so that they can make themselves look better or feel better than they actually are. My wife was one of these people. Eveline would constantly purchase newspapers and rush to turn on the news—in the little amount she was ever home—to as she said “explore what was going on in this beautiful world around us.” I saw right through that as well, she was always searching for headlines of her most recently published books, not caring for anything else, but herself.
It was summertime in New Orleans when they found her dismembered body. I remember I started my morning off meeting my coworkers at Maison Bourbon, a bar in the heat of the notorious Bourbon Street. It was so humid that day, as I walked outside of my Colonial style house in the suburbs of New Orleans, my clothes instantly stuck to my skin with moisture, and as I unlocked the door to my 2014 Cadillac ELR, the heat seemed to consume me. Eveline, as usual, was nowhere to be found. I instantly had a flashback to the night before.
.     .     .
“Douglas, can you please stay out of the bedroom. I’m packing for a book signing in Baton Rouge tomorrow, and you in my way is the last thing I need.” I didn’t sputter a word to Eveline in response, it didn’t matter, she was probably drunk anyways. As she was flustering through her clothes to pack, a thick, leather journal fell from her bag. I reached down to quickly pick it up without her noticing, fearing she might get upset.
Eveline used to be the most engaging, beautiful woman in the world, with the purest white skin and long dark hair that curled to her face, complementing her astounding cheekbones. Her eyes were this warm, inviting shade of caramel, and her smile was just astounding. She truly was a stunning woman She was wonderful, in both her appearance, and in the way she treated me, until she got into writing, which is when our marriage began to slide downhill. Any moment she wasn’t locked away in the study writing, she was drinking, or hundreds of miles away at book signings. She treated me worse and worse as our time together went on. 
.    .    .
“Mr. Peterson, these are for you.” A loud banging noise disrupted my thoughts as I looked to see a maroon scrapbook titled The Peterson’s lying on my desk.
“What exactly is this?” I asked my buddy Mike Johnson. He was a big man, it always seemed as if his large belly and large arms were going to rip the seams of his button up dress shirts every time he took a breath, fortunately, I never saw it happen.
Mike gave me no response back. I took that as the initiative to open the book. It had been a scrapbook Eveline had put together for the two of us. The first image that I opened up to was one I had taken of Eveline a couple years back, on our anniversary.
We had returned home from a nice Italian restaurant called Greco’s, where we had our dinner that night. She had driven home, because I had a little to drink. She had looked so beautiful that night, it was rare for her to actually clean herself up for me, so I decided to take a picture of her as she was setting her purse on the bed.  She saw the flash go off and immediately turned and blocked her face. She never showed much love or affection towards me, and until this day, I have never been able to understand why.
As I sat in my stiff chair at the office, I noticed something in that photo that I had never noticed before. Peeking out of her purse was the same thick, leather journal I had taken from her before. I left the office faster than the office ladies around me could type, and I went home to recover that book.
.    .    .
It had been locked up in the top right drawer of my office desk, covered in dust when I found it later that day. I blew the dust off, watching it disperse throughout the room, and I opened it; it was Eveline’s personal diary. I had a feeling that this journal could tell me more about my wife than I had every known before.
April 22, 2014
Why do I write? Well, it is my escape from reality, and by reality I mean my husband, Douglas Peterson. I’ve never been so miserable in my life. I don’t know what I ever saw attractive about that man, but whatever it was, it is completely gone now. I’ve been with him for over twenty years, but now I cannot bear it anymore.
That was the first entry I read. Considering how badly she treated me, it didn’t hurt me that much to see those first few words. I only stopped at the ones that grabbed my attention.
May 3, 2014
God if you really exist I am calling to you now. He knows not the slightest of what he does. He thinks I’m an alcoholic. Sure I drink a lot, but it is strictly out of fear. He comes home late at night drunk out of his mind and locks me in the study constantly repeating, “Where did you go? What did you do with my pure Eveline?” At first I began to think he was just going through something, but as it happened over and over again, I realized he had a problem. He couldn’t recall any of this. He comes in each morning at around 3 and unlocks the door, half asleep. I decided to see a psychiatrist, I found one in Baton Rouge, and I needed to see him as soon as possible to seek help.
My heart sank in my chest. No wonder she went to see a psychiatrist, she was a compulsive liar. Me locking her up and shouting those things at her? I should’ve known better than to think she was at a “book signing”. Her accusation of me being the alcoholic really fired me up. I began to fill with rage, and before I knew it, I blacked out.
I often had blackouts. Anytime my stress level was up too high, I blacked out. That is why I don’t remember much from the day of my wife’s murder, it was so much for me to handle.
When I awoke, I decided to put the writings aside, they were making me feel a little strange. I decided to call it a night and lock the book back up in the drawer.
Eveline’s writings kept becoming more and more real in my head. I often had nightmares as well and began seeing things. The other night, I had just finished having a glass of wine and was on my way into the den when I heard a scream in the house. I rushed to the study where it came from. There was Eveline’s corpse handcuffed to her desk. “Help me!” she yelled. Then, before my very eyes, her body began to separate, her limbs were assembling themselves all over the study. I closed my eyes, hit my face, and when I looked up again, there was nothing. I decided to drink some more.
As I poured myself a glass of Glenlivet single malt scotch, I kept thinking about my wife. I thought about what she was saying in her writings, and if maybe she was right. Was I insane? I drank more.
I woke up at around three in the morning and decided to open Eveline’s journal. This entry was much unexpected.
July 1, 2014
I know there is no way out. I look in my husband’s dark green eyes, and I can see that he knows. He knows my secret. He knows why I haven’t been home as much. Dr. Marshall tells me to talk with Douglas but I can’t. Fear blocks my path. I just want Douglas to be gone. I want Derek Marshall to love me like I love him. What have I done to be hidden from happiness? I’m beginning to see dark shadows a lot. Dr. Marshall tells me in his sweet, soft voice that it is a side effect of the medication I’m taking for the anxiety, but I disagree. I think it is death following me. I have thoughts of suicide multiple times throughout the day, and when I do, I see the shadow. Derek tells me no as he brushes his honey brown hair through his hands. But I tell him yes. It is all I can do. He asks me why, and I explain. I explain how I hear yells of my husband, screaming around the house that he wants me dead, discussing with himself the different ways he will do it. I explain how the only person I feel safe with is with someone else, happy with his own family. Dr. Marshall asks who that is, and I tell him I am talking about him. He pretends as if the times we’ve slept together have meant nothing. He tells me it is time for me to leave. I say I know, it’s been time for a while now. I drive home, going 30 miles over the speed limit, running every red light I can, hoping to die. The shadow became larger that night than ever before.
It was after reading that entry that memories came back to me. Eveline had told me she needed a ride to get her flu vaccine at the hospital. I sat and waited with her until this man came out, called her name, and took her back to get her shot. There was something very odd in the way he acted around her. Like they had known each other in some tense way. He followed in behind her and tightly grabbed her waist. My heart had begun to race.
.    .    .
I went to the large window in my den and looked out. I saw the reflection of something that scared me, myself. I looked different than I remembered. My brown hair was scattered all over the place, under my eyes were purple, and I looked as though I had never seen a razor in my life.
Then, before I could worry, I saw the image of that “dreamy” doctor Marshall sleeping with my wife. I should have known she was having an affair, nothing she did had really surprised me recently. 
Then I stumbled upon the last journal entry Eveline had written before I had stolen the safe which held all of her secrets.
July 25, 2014
Today is the day. Douglas is becoming crazier each day I encounter him. He now handcuffs me to my desk in my study and throws sparklers at me while he knows I can’t move. I want to get him help, I really do, but with Derek no longer talking to me… I don’t know who else to ask.
At that very moment, it all came back to me.
Eveline did not make it to dinner but one time that long week in July, when the days dragged on slower than they ever had that whole summer. I went out to the car she had been driving to work in, and found a medical book in the backseat. I opened it up and saw, Derek Marshall, written in black ink. I was so enraged that I started up the car, inhaling the heat that was unbearable, and drove back to where Eveline had received her flu vaccine, weeks before.
During the drive, my heart raced faster and faster, as the speed of my car did the same. I was dizzy, drunk, and broken, and it was time I had put justice into Eveline’s “miserable” life.
I parked outside of the hospital, waiting for Eveline to walk out. As I waited, I loaded up my gun and took a hard shot of liquor that I had in my flask.
“Eveline, how great it is to see you my darling.” I opened my arms to her. She gave me a tiny smirk in return.
“Douglas, what are you doing here? How did you find me? ” I could hear the fear in her voice as it quivered to look me in the eyes. She seemed very upset, her lips were shaking and tears were building up in her brown eyes.
“Don’t worry there’s nothing to be upset about, I’ll drive you home.” I felt my back pocket to make sure the nine millimeter I had just loaded was still there.
She hesitantly sat in the car, and I drove us miles down the curvy road, leading to the riverbank.
“Get out of the car.” Fear grew in her eyes upon the realization that I had known her secret. I took her down to the riverbank and I grabbed Eveline and slammed her against a stone laying on the ground. I pulled out my gun along with a note I had brought along, which was a quote from Cheryl Hughes. I read it aloud to her.
“The truly scary thing about undiscovered lies is that they have a greater capacity to diminish us than exposed ones”
The look on her face as she heard the quote and saw the gun staring into her eyes will never escape my memory, although I’m not sure I want it to. I pulled the trigger and the bullet struck her right on her skull. Never was I more satisfied in my life.
Killing her had me on a high, but shortly after I came down, hard. I began to panic. They would certainly find I was guilty, I would go to prison, I would lose my job, I would lose the little amount of things I had, and I could possibly receive the death penalty. 
I decided to dismember her. I thought at the time it would be the best way to hide the evidence, after all, I investigated crime daily and cases with no bodies were the hardest cases to put together. I scattered her body parts around, and I fled, far away.
It has been a little over a week and they still cannot find the killer. I have a feeling they will never find me.
Insanity comes into my mind quite often actually. Is a person ever truly insane, or is it just the heart’s way of reacting to severe pain? If insanity is real, I want to believe I am a part of it. It is a great thing, hurting others and feeling nothing more than satisfaction at the end of the day.