He held his hand on the black book and he swore it was the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help him God.
The schmuck. Of course he did it. Never trusted him. The whispers from the gallery, from the pious outraged faces, the grieving eyes, floated through the hot, thick air, whirled their mocking dance before resting in his ears. He reached up a manacled hand, scratched, glared upwards.
They didn’t know the truth. He was there, from the beginning. From the first days when he understood … how she swore her own truths, the lying bitch. Those bleak-eyed faces judging him. They wouldn’t know a truth from a picnic.
His truth was that he knew nothing until he came home to find the police flashing their red warnings on his lawn, and the ambulance men trying to revive her. He wasn’t there, was he? His truth. He knows nothing.
Yes, he swore it was the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help him God.
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