I sighed, flopping my back onto my bed. I stared up at the ceiling, lost in the despair and anguish of finding out that Mike, my once close friend, Mike Newt, would kill my husband. I knew they were never the best of friends, but did they have to sink down to murder? Was killing the only way to solve his sadistic problem?

I sat back up, yanking my shoes off my feet and threw them across the room, listening to the sound the vibrating closet door made when to soles came into contact with the knob. I cussed and yelled until I felt better… Or, at least, until my throat could scream no more.

I had to solve this. I had to figure out why he would murder my Edward. Why would someone once so nice and caring kill my one love?

I hurriedly got dressed, bounding down the stairs and into my car, speeding off to the car repair shop.

On my way there, I must've cried 15 times. I thought about that dark, dreary night; replayed it a thousand times in my worn-out yet overactive mind. Did God hate me? If not, then why did he take Edward from me? Did Mike hate me? Did Edward himself hate me?

My thoughts were interrupted by me slamming my car door shut and storming inside, finding exactly the pair of shoes I was looking for, sticking out from a red Jeep Wrangler.

"Mike Newton!" I screamed.

"Jessica I didn't-" Mike rolled out from underneath the car, his blonde hair and lightly-tanned face covered in grease. He looked like a man on the cover of PlayGirl, but I shook the thought of and returned to my usual fuming. "Oh," he mumbled. "It's just you. I'm busy. Go away."

"Not until you tell me why you shot Edward." I glared.

He sighed heavily, wiping the grease from his face, standing up. "I didn't kill him."

I gaped, screaming, "TO HELL YOU DIDN'T! We had his FUNERAL a week ago!"

"He's not d-"

I screamed and dodged out of the way, for I knew what was coming. It all happened very fast. If you had blinked, you would've missed it.

I opened my eyes, shaking, the other men around gaping, 3 others on the phones, frantically explaining to the police and paramedics what had happened. I ever-so slowly pulled myself to my feet, walking over to the remains of Mike Newton.

The nitrous tank must've gotten lose and leaky. It had shot out of the stand it was on, knocking Mike right in the back, shooting across the courtyard until all of Mike Newton was only blood and guts on the side of a tree.

Tears rolled down my cheeks as I ran back to my car, hoping to find a nice, high bridge as I hit the gas and sped down the road.

When I arrived home, I cut the engine and curled my knees up to my chest, sobbing. I can't believe I had to see that, and I felt so, so bad for him. But, at the same time, I knew he deserved that brutal death.

I sniffed and walked back inside; ignoring the stares of his family, then roughly climbed the stairs up to my room. I ran my fingers over the bedspread, and then laid down, my eyes roaming over everything, facing the empty space on my bed where he'd lay down and hold me close, and whispered our favorite songs in my ear.

My eyes wandered around, and then paused at my camera. It wasn't on the bedside table where I left it; instead, it was on his dresser, paused on a video of me with a box half my size. I remembered that day as I remembered two plus two. I slowly got up, reaching across the floor over to the dresser, gripping the small silver device between my fingers, then flopped back down, pressing play.