“It’s so hot in here” she muttered before falling victim to the sights and sounds of sleep.

                I turned to look at her and say something in reply but her eyes had already closed and it seemed best not to wake her from this. I wanted her to enjoy it. I wanted her to appreciate what I had done for her. I had given her all a woman could want from a one night stand, fantastic sex and maybe breakfast.

                I watched her for a moment before I fell asleep. She was beautiful. Legs that went for days and a bust you could balance a watermelon on. Her eyes were relatively bland, but her lips, they danced when she spoke or when she came. This was a picture perfect night for a bachelor like me. Tomorrow morning the awkwardness would come, but it’s better than a night of loneliness.

                “I Smell BACON!”  

My Body shot awake as the scent gathered. I threw the covers off and reached for my clothes. Very ungracefully I slapped on some shorts and one sock as I scampered down the stairs to my kitchen. There she stood. She was still naked.

                “What an amazing woman.” I thought.  

                I immediately decided to express my gratitude by giving her one hell of a good morning kiss. As I approached her though her figure started look a whole lot different from what I remember from the night before. This woman cooking in the nude, in my kitchen, was not the woman from the night before. Quickly I gathered the facts. She was short, blonde, and a little to perky for seven A.M.

                “Good morning dear.” She said as she turned to face me.

Her eyes cut through me in that first glance. It was my ex-wife. Shit.

                “I made bacon and eggs. I know they are your favorite for Saturday mornings.”

                “That’s fantastic, but what the hell are you doing here? Also why are you naked”?

                “I thought I could surprise you. I know that you love it when I make you breakfast.”

                “That still does not shed any light on the naked situation though. If u wanted to surprise me you could have dressed like a clown or a mime. That would have been surprising, and also a childhood dream of mine to watch a mime actually do something and not just pretend”

                “Can you not just appreciate the fact that I wanted to do something nice for you.”

                “Not when it involves breaking and entering.”

                “Details baby, just details. Now sit down its almost ready.”

                “Get out of my house!”

I saw a look in her eye at that moment. It reminded me of my best friends mom when she would get mad at us for breaking something or getting drunk in her basement. There was fire in her eyes, accompanied by a violent sneer. I was actually scared of a naked woman who was cooking me breakfast. Something about this was very wrong.

                “Who is she?” she said, still managing to keep that look on her face.

                “None of your business, please just leave. You no longer have the right to sneak into my home and cook bacon and eggs for me.”              

                She threw down the tongs, leaving a small but annoyingly noticeable scratch in my hardwood floor. Still with the same look on her face she grabbed her dress, threw it over her shoulders and walked out my back door. I stood there in my kitchen slowly collecting my thoughts when I heard my bedroom door open, a second later footsteps.

                “Who’s making bacon?”

                “I think I want to marry this woman.” I thought to myself.

                Over a relatively awkward breakfast the woman from the night before and I discussed the glorious art of seducing a woman who is already three sheets to the wind with magic tricks and the promise of a second date. During this conversation I was able to get some information out of her. Her name is Chelsea, she is a waitress at the bar I picked her up at, and she is a tennis fanatic. I don’t like tennis at all but my first car was nicknamed Chelsea so this was a good start.   

                As quickly as she came, she left. Strangely enough, I did miss her. We parted and exchanged phone numbers. I was pretty convinced that I was going to call her, not quite sure when but I knew I was going to. Until then I decided that it was Saturday, my weekend had begun. I was going to play X Box and probably order a pizza. It was going to be a good day.

The day began to unwind after the twenty fourth game of “Call Of Duty” and the sixth slice of pizza. It was eleven forty five at night and I was pretty tired. It was a lazy Saturday filled with sloth, gluttony and just the right amount of lust. I told myself I would be productive tomorrow. I am a master procrastinator. I slipped into something more comfortable and took a deep and gracious sleep.

I awoke the next morning not to the smell of bacon, but to the horrible sound of my door bell. It was six in the fucking morning, who the fuck could be here? I staggered out of bed dressed in the same shorts as the day before and a t-shirt with a small pizza stain on it. Quickly, I bolted down the stairs hoping that it was just my x-wife looking for a little sympathy fuck, or my neighbor looking for a sympathy fuck; either way I felt like my mind was in the right place.

I swung the door open to reveal a six foot something giant police officer standing with my long time friend detective McCarthy.

                “How’s It going detective.” I murmured still half asleep.               

                Detective McCarthy and I had been friends since we were in high school. He and I were thick as thieves once upon a time. We spent an inordinate amount of time trying to form a band that never had a chance. In the hallways of our alma mater we would chat and discuss our future lives as rock stars and dream of living life on the road. Oddly enough he became a Detective and I became a journalist. Strange world I guess.

                “I am going to cut right to the chase. Chelsea Stark was murdered last night.”

                “Fuck, that’s horrible. Do you know how?”

                “We were hoping you could tell us.”

                “How should I know?” 

                “We need you to come down to the station; we have some questions for you.”

                For the first time in my life I road in the back of a police car. It was surprisingly roomy. We took a long drive downtown to the shady side of Chicago. On the way detective McCarthy would not even speak a word to me. Did he really think I could have murdered this woman? How could he think that about me? He had to know I had nothing to do with it, he just had to?

We arrived to the station and I told them all that there was to tell. She was a one night stand that had potential to become something more. I told them about how I picked her up at the bar and how she left my house around eight a.m. the next morning. I told them that I had intended to call her but had not gotten around to it.

Detective McCarthy wrote relentless notes and studied my responses like a true professional. If only his sixteen year old self could see him now, there would be an ass whoopin in order. After about three hours of grilling me with questions about where I was last night and what I was doing with my day he let me go. Now he had become far more colloquial toward me. He started talking to me like we did as kids. It was very nostalgic. I guess he knew that it could not have been me, not his childhood best friend.

It was nearly three o’clock in the afternoon when detective McCarthy dropped me off at home. He gave a quick goodbye and told me that we would be in touch. It was hot out that day, maybe eighty nine or ninety degrees and I had to mow my lawn and do some yard work.

                “Maybe later” I told myself. I was still too tired from the morning of rude awakening.

                Sleep did not come so easily that night. I lie there thinking of the woman who had just walked into my life and then suddenly was taken out. Why was I a suspect in this murder? Who really could have killed such a fantastic woman? The better question would have been why? I tossed and turned for hours racking my brain with scenarios in which I could have prevented Chelsea from being murdered. I could have taken her home myself; I could have met up with her that night. Why did it have to end like this and why did I feel somewhat responsible.

The next week was a blur. I came and went to and from the office dodging the same repetitive calls from my ex-wife and eating lunch with a man named George. George was not an interesting man but he had this fascinating way of eating his sandwiches with a fork that would just tickle me pink. Each day he would order the chicken club, and then complain that it was just too good. This normally would annoy me but I did try the sandwich once and he is right, it is quite delicious. On Friday however; our normal server, whose name is Julie, started to talk about a woman who was murdered.

                “Did you or George hear about the woman who was killed on her way home from work last Saturday?”                

                Immediately this caught my attention.

                “No not at all.” I stuttered a little bit on the last syllable.

                “Oh yea, she was on her way home from work and got attacked my some insane murderer. Word is the murderer wore a large trench coat and used some really odd type of knife to kill her”

                “How much information has been released to the press about the case?”

                “Not much.  Just that she was stabbed to death by some novelty knife or something along those lines.”

                “This is one hell of a city we live in isn’t it?”

                “You got that right.”

                Not fifteen minutes after my small conversation with Julie I got a call from detective McCarthy.

                “Hank?”

                “Yea I’m here.”

                “Meet me at your place in twenty.”  

                Before I could respond, the phone clicked off. Something was wrong. I could not figure it out but maybe detective McCarthy could shed some light on the situation for me. I got up from my seat and said my farewells to George and Julie. They both looked concerned but I assured them it was just a client.

I drove as quickly as I could back home. Detective McCarthy was waiting there for me. He stood tall, and wore a cheap suit. His hair was slicked back and his shoes were shiny enough to provide a nice reflection. I stepped out of my vehicle and approached the detective. With each step I began to feel more and more like this was not going to end well.

“Hank, it is nice to see you.”

“Nice to see you too, what is this about?”

“Well you are obviously well aware of the details of the murder. A very specific type of novelty knife was used.”  

“What is your point?”

“Don’t play dumb with me. You and I both know that you have been collecting stupid knives and swords since you were fourteen. This is not something I can just ignore.”

“Fine your right I collect knives but I keep all of mine in my basement where they are all on display.”

“Can you show me?”

Detective McCarthy and I entered my house and walked around for a bit. I offered him coffee but he claimed to be Chicago’s only caffeine free detective. We walked into my basement and sorted all through my displays and the many glass enclosed knives I had collected. “Where is the one that belongs here?”

One of my knives was missing. Underneath its frame, a small picture of the giant bladed knife that once sat there on display. It was one of a kind. Custom made for me by a friend in Kentucky. It was a flawless video game replica I had always wanted.

“Did I fail to mention to you that we found the murder weapon?”

“So are you going to cuff me, or should I just walk quietly to your car?”

“You can just go quietly, but just answer me one question.”

“I did not murder her. You have to know that.”

My cell phone began to ring. It was my ex-wife. I ignored the call and made my out of my house. Detective McCarthy walked directly behind me. He wore this smirk of victory as if he had somehow defeated me or something. The backseat of his car already felt like a prison cell. How could this be happening? I did nothing wrong. I did not murder Chelsea.

I lied awake in my cell that night. I had to figure it all out. Who would have some reason to frame me for murder? Who has complete access to my home and would have known to use that one knife? I tossed, and I turned. This is not happening I told myself. The law will find me innocent.

Detective McCarthy decided he was the best person for the job when it came to grieving women. He took the drive out to my ex-wives house to explain to her what had happened to me. He was still wearing that stupid grin on his face; his stupid victory grin.

She heard the knock come upon the door. Quickly she ran and opened the door. There stood detective McCarthy, he was my best friend. She embraced him and began to smother him in affection.

“It is done then?” She asked.                                                                                         

“It was flawless my dear. You preformed perfectly.”

“He is going to be gone forever?”

“Forever my dear…forever.”