My Wife Called Me a Killer

I was suddenly dragged out of my home by the police.

The reason? My wife reported me as a murderer!

I am an online novelist.

Recently, I’ve been writing a suspense thriller, and it went viral in Chicago because of two brutal murder cases that shook the city.

The problem was—my novel’s murder scenes were exactly the same as the real cases.

Readers, onlookers, the police, and even my wife…

They all believed I was the killer!

Inside the interrogation room.

“Three days ago, in the Empire Trade Center elevator case, the victim entered from the sixth floor, the elevator stopped on the fifth floor, and within just fifteen seconds the victim lost his head. How did you do it?”

“And last night at Lincoln High School, the dismemberment case—where the victim’s mouth was sewn shut and his chest was pierced with more than a hundred stitches. Surveillance showed the victim was alone in the building. How did you manage to avoid the cameras?”

Facing the repeated questioning and accusations of several officers, I calmly countered:

“During both incidents, I was at home writing my novel. Tell me, how could I possibly commit murder?”

“Who can prove you were home?”

“I…”

“No one to vouch for your alibi?”

“…No.”

“Or is it because you were out committing the murders at that time?”

…

Because I couldn’t provide an alibi, I was listed as the prime suspect in both homicides and was temporarily locked up in the holding cell.

Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine this.

I had only written a suspense novel… yet the police insisted I was a murderer.

Even I was shaken, because the methods of the killings were exactly the same as in my novel.

Why was this happening?

Suddenly, a possibility struck me.

Could the real killer have read my novel and imitated the murders?

But no—that didn’t make sense.

Both cases happened within five minutes of me publishing the new chapters.

If the murderer was following my story, there simply wasn’t enough time!

Unless…

The killer could somehow foresee my unwritten chapters.

The thought made me leap up and pound on the door of the holding cell.

“I want to see Captain Robert Johnson!”

A while later, Captain Johnson of the homicide division walked in.

“Ready to confess?”

“Captain Johnson, I’m not the killer. If my guess is right, the real murderer is committing these crimes based on the plot of my novel.”

“Or maybe,” Captain Johnson said coldly, “you’re just turning your own crimes into fiction.”

“What time is it now?”

“11:55 p.m.”

“I have a habit—I always schedule my chapters to auto-update. In five minutes, my novel will update again. Which means, ten minutes from now, Chicago will see a third bizarre murder—this time, at a swimming pool!”

“Heh. And you think I’ll believe that?”

“Wait ten minutes. The answer will reveal itself.”

The ten minutes passed in a blink.

Captain Johnson checked his watch and sneered. “Time’s up.”

I frowned. Still no call.

Could it be… that my guess was wrong?

Were the first two cases really just coincidence?

And then—

Captain Johnson’s phone rang.

He looked at me as he answered, and after listening for a few seconds, his face darkened.

Meanwhile, I quietly let out a sigh of relief.

“I’m on my way,” Captain Johnson said before hanging up.