He K!lled His Wife And Sister After Catching Them Having S3x In Walmart
He K!lled His Wife And Sister After Catching Them Having S3x In Walmart
…
They pulled into the Walmart parking lot.
The massive beige building looked typical of the chain, functional and unpretentious.
Other stores were located nearby, Target, Home Depot, several fast food restaurants.
It was middle class America in all its glory.
Practical, hardworking, but financially strained.
See you tonight.
Myra leaned over to her husband and kissed him on the cheek.
Her lips were cool.
Try to talk to Patty today.
Have a serious talk.
Otwell watched her walk toward the staff entrance.
Myra was still an attractive woman.
Although 8 years of marriage and constant stress had left their mark.
Her gate had become heavier, her shoulders more often slumped.
She used to laugh more often.
She used to hug him for longer than a second in the mornings.
The drive to the distribution center took another 20 minutes.
Otwell turned on the radio where they were discussing the latest news.
Economic indicators, political debates, sports results.
Normal American life continued.
But for the Collins family, each day became a little more difficult than the last.
At the distribution center, Otwell managed a team of 12 people who shipped goods throughout the Southwest.
The work was physically demanding and psychologically exhausting.
Constant pressure to perform, strict deadlines, minimal recognition for a job well done, but it paid well and provided health insurance, which in modern America was already a blessing.
Morning, boss.
Carlos Menddees, one of the loaders, greeted him.
Carlos had been working here for 3 years and was the only one Otwell sometimes talked to about personal matters.
Morning, Carlos.
How are things at home? Nothing.
My wife is saying we need to move again.
She says the rent is too high.
1,800 for a two-bedroom in Tempe is daylight robbery.
Otwell nodded.
The housing crisis affected everyone.
Even those who worked full-time struggled to make ends meet.
Where does she want to move? Tucson maybe or even to another state.
She says Texas is cheaper.
They went back to their workstations.
Otwell spent the morning checking invoices, coordinating shipments, and resolving minor conflicts between employees.
The monotonous work allowed his mind to wander and his thoughts invariably returned to his domestic problems.
Patty lost her job at a travel agency when the pandemic finally killed the travel industry.
At first, it seemed like a temporary setback.
A smart, educated girl with a college degree should have found a new job quickly.
But the job market was brutal.
Hundreds of résumés, dozens of interviews, constant rejections.
Gradually, despair gave way to depression, depression to alcohol, alcohol to complete indifference to looking for work.
Around noon, Otwell called home.
The phone rang for a long time before Patty finally picked up.
Hello.
Her voice was hoaro from sleep.
Patty, it’s noon.
Are you planning on getting up today? God, Otwell, I’m not at work.
Let me sleep.
You haven’t been at work for almost a year.
Maybe it’s time to do something about it.
Pause.
He heard her light a cigarette.
Look, I understand that you and Myra are tired of me, but I didn’t get myself into this situation on purpose.
Do you think I like living off your salary? No, of course not.
But you have to take some action every day.
Resumes, phone calls, interviews, not sit at home and drink.
I don’t drink.
Well, no more than any normal person.
The lie sounded unconvincing even to her.
Otuwell knew that at least a dozen beer cans and a couple of wine bottles ended up in their trash can every week.
Patty bought the cheapest alcohol at the nearest store and drank it while watching TV late into the night.
Patty, we need to have a serious talk when I get home.
All three of us, what is there to talk about? That I’m a burden.
I already know that about how we can all move forward.
We’re a family, but that doesn’t mean we can live like this forever.
After the conversation, Otwell felt the familiar heaviness in his chest.
His love for his sister was mixed with frustration and growing indignation.
Patty was a talented, once ambitious girl.
In college, she had studied international business, dreamed of a career in the travel industry, and wanted to travel the world.
Now her dreams were limited to making it through the evening without arguing with her family.
That evening, Otwell picked up Myra from work.
She looked even more tired than she had in the morning.
“How was your day?” he asked.
“The usual.
” “Inventory, customer complaints, management meeting.
” James said there might be a reduction in hours due to declining sales.
James Parker was the shift manager and one of the few people at work with whom Myra could talk openly.
He had been with Walmart for eight years, knew the ins and outs of retail, and often defended the interests of rank and file employees to upper management.
Cutbacks.
Otwell felt his stomach tighten with anxiety.
By how much? It’s unclear at this point.
Maybe four or five hours a week.
That’s about $100 a month.
$100 a month was a significant amount for the Collins family.
It could mean choosing between a full tank of gas or a week’s worth of groceries.
At home, the predictable scene awaited them.
Patty was sitting on the living room couch with an open can of beer in front of her and an empty pizza box on the table.
Some reality show was playing on TV.
“Hi,” she said without looking up from the screen.
Myra walked past without responding to the greeting.
Otwell stopped in the middle of the living room.
Patty, we agreed to talk.
Yes, of course.
She finally looked at him.
Her eyes were slightly cloudy.
Not drunk, but not quite sober either.
What do you want to talk about, brother? Myra returned from the kitchen, holding the electricity bill in her hands.
$280 a month in February.
Even though we’re saving on heating, she showed the paper to Otwell.
Someone’s leaving the TV on at night.
Patty took another sip of beer.
I pay for electricity with my presence and moral support.
This isn’t funny, Hotwell said.
We can’t live like this anymore.
A heavy silence fell.
Outside the window, the sun was setting, painting the mountains in shades of pink.
Somewhere in a neighbor’s yard, a dog barked.
The usual sounds of an ordinary evening in an ordinary American family slowly falling apart under the weight of financial problems and mutual grievances.
The next two weeks passed in an atmosphere of barely contained irritation.
The conversation never took place.
Every time tried to bring up the subject of Patty’s future, she found a way to avoid the discussion.
Myra became even more silent, answering her husband’s questions with monoyllables and spending most of her evenings in the bedroom, supposedly reading or working on her laptop.
On the first Monday in March, Otwell woke up to the sound of the shower running.
The clock showed 6 in the morning, unusually early for Myra, who usually got up at quart 6.
He lay in bed listening to the familiar sounds of the morning routine when he noticed something strange.
There was quiet laughter coming from the bathroom.
Not just Myra’s laughter, but the muffled conversation of two voices.
Atwell got up quietly and went to the bathroom door.
The voices had stopped, but he could clearly hear the sounds of two people, the rustling of clothes, muffled footsteps, even what sounded like whispering.
When the door finally opened, only Myra came out, wrapped in a towel, her hair wet.
“Up early,” he said.
“Couldn’t sleep.
” Myra walked past him to the dresser, avoiding eye contact.
Patty didn’t sleep all night either.
The TV again, but when looked into the living room, Patty was fast asleep on the sofa, covered with a blanket.
The TV was off.
There were two cups on the coffee table, both still warm.
Atwell couldn’t concentrate at work.
The strangeness of the morning’s events kept running through his mind.
Two cups of coffee at 7:00 in the morning when Patty was supposedly asleep.
The sounds in the bathroom that couldn’t have come from one person.
Myra’s nervousness, her desire to avoid conversation.
Hey, boss.
Everything okay? Carlos noticed his distraction around noon.
You look like you haven’t slept all night.
No, everything’s fine.
Just some stuff at home.
Otwell tried to focus on the invoice he had been holding in his hands for 5 minutes without reading.
Wife.
Carlos nodded understandingly.
I’ve been there.
You start noticing little things you didn’t see before.
You ask yourself questions.
What kind of questions? Well, like why she suddenly smells different when she comes home? or why her phone is always face down now.
Little things.
Carlos left, but his words stuck in well’s mind.
Myra had indeed become more careful with her phone.
Before she would leave it on the table or askwell to answer it if she was busy.
Now the device was always with her, often in her pocket or bag.
That evening he decided to test his suspicions.
Over dinner, reheated leftovers from yesterday’s lunch.
Otwell discreetly observed his wife and sister.
Patty seemed more animated than usual.
She had even taken a shower and changed into clean clothes, which was becoming increasingly rare.
Myra also seemed to be in a better mood, although she still avoided direct eye contact with her husband.
“How’s work?” he asked Myra.
“Same as usual, James says the cutbacks may not be as severe as we thought.
That’s good.
Otwell carved the chicken he had bought frozen in bulk at Costco.
How are you doing, Patty? Did you find anything today? Patty and Myra exchanged a quick glance.
It was so quick that Otwell barely noticed it, but it was significant enough to catch his attention.
Yes, I sent out a few resumes, Patty replied.
There’s a position at a hotel.
Receptionist sounds promising.
Yeah, maybe.
Patty got up from the table.
I’m going out for a smoke.
She went out to the backyard, leaving Otwell alone with his wife.
Myra, is everything okay between us? She looked up from her plate.
Of course.
What should be wrong? I don’t know.
You just seem distant lately.
I’m tired.
Work, home, patty.
It’s all exhausting.
I understand, but I don’t think it’s just fatigue.
Myra got up and began clearing the table.
Otwell.
Sometimes people just go through difficult periods.
It doesn’t mean that something has changed dramatically.
After dinner, Otwell sat down in the living room to watch the news while the women went into the kitchen.
He could hear their muffled voices, but couldn’t make out the words.
The conversation lasted about half an hour, interrupted periodically by long pauses.
When they finally came out, they both looked serious.
I’m going to bed early, said Myra.
Tomorrow is going to be a tough day.
Patty settled down on the sofa with a can of beer and turned on the TV.
Otwell decided to stay with her.
How are you feeling, sis? Better.
Little by little, she flipped through the channels, not lingering on anyone.
Myra helps me a lot.
Helps you.
How? Well, she talks to me.
She supports me.
She understands what it’s like to feel trapped.
Oughtwell frowned.
Trapped? Did Myra say that? Patty realized she had said too much.
No, that’s not what I meant.
It’s just, you know, working in retail isn’t exactly a dream job.
Myra never complained about her job.
People don’t always say what they think.
Patty took a big gulp of beer, especially women.
That night, Otwell couldn’t sleep for a long time.
Myra lay next to him, her back turned to him, breathing evenly and deeply, but something about her posture seemed unnatural to him, too tense for someone who was asleep.
Around 2:00 in the morning, he heard quiet footsteps in the hallway.
Carefully lifting himself up, Otwell peaked through the crack between the door and the door frame.
Patty was walking toward the kitchen, barefoot, trying not to make any noise.
A few minutes later, the footsteps repeated.
this time in the opposite direction.
At breakfast that morning, the atmosphere was tense.
Myra was in more of a hurry than usual to get to work, and Patty looked tired with dark circles under her eyes.
Didn’t sleep well? Otwell asked his sister.
Nightmares, she replied curtly.
Maybe you should see a doctor or a psychologist.
We can’t afford psychologists, interjected Myra.
Our insurance only covers emergencies.
Then maybe we can try to find some free support programs.
There must be some in the city.
Patty and Myra exchanged glances again.
I’ll be fine, Patty said.
I just need time.
That evening, Otwell decided to go to the gym after work, something he did less and less often to save money on his membership.
Exercise helped him think.
As he worked out on the treadmill, the pieces of his wife and sister’s strange behavior fell into place in his mind.
The morning sounds in the bathroom, two cups of coffee, meaningful glances across the table.
Patty’s nighttime walks around the house.
Myra’s changed behavior more secretive, more cautious.
Patty’s comment that Myra feels trapped.
He tried to find a rational explanation.
Maybe they had just grown closer to each other against the backdrop of shared problems.
Women often found support in conversations with other women.
Perhaps Myra was really helping Patty cope with depression, and that required confidentiality.
But something about this explanation didn’t convince him.
When returned home around 9:00 that evening, the house seemed unusually quiet.
Myra’s car was in the driveway, but there were no lights on in any of the rooms.
He entered through the front door and called out, “Myra, Patty.
” There was no answer.
He walked through the living room to the kitchen, turning on the lights as he went.
There was a note from Myra on the kitchen table.
Went to the mall.
We’ll be back late.
Dinner is in the fridge.
The mall? Myra hated malls, especially in the evenings, and Patty didn’t have any money for shopping.
Otwell checked the refrigerator.
There was no dinner there.
He tried to call Myra, but the phone went straight to voicemail.
He tried texting her.
Where are you? I’m worried.
There was no reply.
Otwell made himself a sandwich and sat down in front of the TV, but he couldn’t concentrate on the program.
Every sound outside the window made him look up, expecting to hear a car approaching.
Myra and Patty returned around 11:00.
They entered the house talking quietly but fell silent when they saw Otwell in the living room.
“How’s it going?” he asked, trying to make his voice sound casual.
“Fine.
Just took a walk.
” Myra avoided his gaze.
Patty needed to get out of the house.
to the mall.
Yes, we walked around a bit, looked at the store windows.
We didn’t buy anything.
Patty walked silently into the living room and turned on the TV.
Myra headed for the bathroom.
Myrawell called after her.
I tried to call you.
Your phone was off.
The battery died, she replied without turning around.
But Otwell had seen her take the phone out of her bag, and the screen was lit up.
The device was clearly turned on and charged.
That night, he lay awake, listening to every sound in the house.
Around 3:00 in the morning, he heard quiet footsteps in the hallway again.
This time, Otwell got up carefully and peaked out of the bedroom.
Patty was standing by the bathroom door, which was slightly a jar.
The light was on inside, and Otwell could see the shadow of a second person.
They were whispering so quietly that he couldn’t make out a word.
10 minutes later, Patty returned to her spot on the sofa and Myra came out of the bathroom.
She too moved very carefully, trying not to wake her husband.
At breakfast that morning, decided to ask a direct question.
Were you really at the mall yesterday? Myra looked up from her coffee cup.
Of course.
Where else? I was just surprised.
You don’t usually like places like that.
People change, Patty interjected.
Maybe Myra has discovered a passion for shopping.
She smiled.
But Otwell found the smile unnatural, forced.
Maybe, he agreed.
But next time, give me a heads up.
I was worried.
I’m sorry, said Myra.
I didn’t think.
But there was no sincerity in her apology, just like in all their conversations over the past few weeks.
After work, Otwell decided to drive by Scottsdale Fashion Square, the only large shopping center they could go to in the evening.
He parked and went inside, not really knowing what he was looking for.
Most of the stores were already closing.
Otwell approached the security guard at the main entrance.
Tell me, could two women have been here last night? One 32, the other 29, one with brown hair, the other blonde.
The security guard shrugged.
Man, there are hundreds of people here every day.
I don’t remember everyone.
I see.
What time do you close? 10:00 on weekdays.
Atwell looked at his watch.
It was4 to 10.
If Myra and Patty really were here until 11, they must have spent an hour and a half in the parking lot or at one of the 24-hour establishments nearby.
He checked several fast food restaurants and 24-hour cafes within a half mile radius of the mall.
No one remembered two women matching the description.
When Otwell returned home, he found the same scene.
Patty on the couch with a beer, Myra in the bedroom with her laptop.
A normal evening in a normal family if you didn’t pay attention to the atmosphere of unspoken tension and hidden stress.
“How’s it going?” Myra asked when he entered the bedroom.
“Fine.
How about you? Fine, too.
They lay in bed, each on their own side, with a space between them that seemed wider than the physical distance of a few inches.
Otwell spent the next few days in a state of agonizing uncertainty.
Every morning, he woke up hoping that the strangeness of the past few weeks would turn out to be a figment of his imagination.
But reality stubbornly threw up new reasons for concern.
Little things that would have gone unnoticed before now took on an ominous tone.
Mara began to take much longer showers in the morning than usual.
Previously, the whole process took her no more than 15 minutes, but now she spent half an hour in the bathroom, sometimes even longer.
The sound of running water was interspersed with long pauses during which Otwell heard muffled voices.
When he once cautiously approached the door and listened, the conversation stopped instantly.
Patty had changed, too.
The depressive apathy of recent months had been replaced by a strange nervousness.
She began to get up from the sofa more often, walk around the house without any apparent purpose, and look out of the windows.
She still drank alcohol regularly, but now she drank more cautiously, controlling the amount.
It seemed as if she wanted to remain sober enough for something important.
Otwell began to notice details of their clothing.
Myra, who had worn the same two or three business outfits to work for years, suddenly became more attentive to her appearance.
She bought new lipstick and began to use perfumes that had sat untouched on her dressing table for years.
Patty also began to shower more often and change into clean clothes.
But what bothered Otwell most was their behavior at the table.
The women had learned to communicate almost without words.
Short glances, subtle gestures, half smiles that appeared and disappeared so quickly that he wasn’t sure he had actually seen them.
When he tried to join in their conversation, it became tense and formal.
One morning, as Myra was getting ready for work, Otwell noticed that she had left her phone on the kitchen table in her haste.
The device was lying face up and when a message arrived, the text appeared on the locked screen for a few seconds.
Miss you.
Can’t wait for tonight.
The message was from a contact named P.
Obviously, Patty.
But Patty was in the living room just a few feet from the kitchen.
Why would she send a text message to a woman who was in the same house? Otwell quickly put the phone back in its place when he heard Myra’s footsteps returning for the forgotten device.
“Found it,” she said when she saw the phone.
“I can’t do anything without it.
” She grabbed the device and immediately checked her messages.
Uwell saw her face change slightly, an expression he couldn’t quite place.
Not happiness, but not worry either.
Something between anticipation and anxiety.
That day at work, Otwell couldn’t concentrate on anything.
The invoices in front of him blurred.
The numbers didn’t add up to meaningful combinations.
He miscalculated the weight of the cargo twice and once almost sent the wrong container.
Boss, maybe you should go home, Carlos suggested around 3:00 in the afternoon.
You look like a zombie.
No, I’m fine.
Come on.
Everyone has problems with their wives.
Do you want to talk? Oughtwell looked at Carlos.
The man was 5 years younger than him, but he had already been through a divorce and remarried.
Perhaps he really did have experience that could be useful.
Have you ever suspected your wife of cheating? Otwell asked quietly.
Carlos whistled.
So that’s what this is about.
Yes, I have.
With my first wife.
And how did you know your suspicions were justified? At first, it was little things.
Her phone, new clothes, staying late at work.
Then I found messages on her phone.
And what did you do? Carlos paused, remembering.
Nothing at first.
I thought maybe it would go away.
Then I tried to talk to her.
She denied everything and got angry that I didn’t trust her.
And then I caught them together.
Where? at our house in our bed at 3:00 in the afternoon when I was supposedly at work.
Otwell felt his stomach clench.
And what happened next? Divorce, alimony, 2 years of depression.
Carlos shrugged.
But you know what? It’s better to know the truth than to live in uncertainty.
Uncertainty eats you alive.
That evening, Otwell came home early, telling work he wasn’t feeling well.
It wasn’t a lie.
He really was nauseous with anxiety.
The house greeted him with its usual silence.
Myra wasn’t home yet.
She finished work at 6:00.
Patty was sitting in her usual spot on the couch, but the TV was off.
You’re home early, she said without turning her head.
I have a headache.
Otwell went into the bedroom ostensibly to change, but really to look around.
He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he hoped to find something that would confirm or dispel his suspicions.
The bed was neatly made as always.
Myra’s dressing table looked normal.
But when he opened the top drawer of her dresser, he found things he hadn’t seen before.
New lace lingerie still in its packaging, a small bottle of expensive perfume, a notebook.
Uwell picked up the notebook.
Most of the pages were blank, but on a few he found short notes in Myra’s handwriting.
February 15th, talked with P until 2:00 am February 18th, shopping center.
She said she loves me.
February 22nd, well suspects something.
Need to be more careful.
February 25th, P suggested leaving.
Said she knows a place.
Otwell’s heart was beating so hard he could hear his pulse in his ears.
The notes confirmed his worst fears, but raised even more questions.
She said she loved me.
Who? Patty P.
suggested we leave.
Leave where and from whom? He photographed the pages with his phone and carefully returned the notebook to its place.
His hands were shaking so badly that he could barely hold the device.
The sound of keys in the front door lock made him quickly close the drawer and leave the bedroom.
Myra was hanging her coat in the hall, looking tired.
“How’s it going?” she asked.
“Fine.
I had a headache, so I came home early.
” “Would you like something?” Otwell nodded and went to the bathroom for some aspirin.
In the mirror, he saw his own face, pale with dilated pupils.
He looked like a man in shock.
At dinner, the atmosphere was even more tense than usual.
Myra and Patty hardly spoke, but Otwell felt their eyes on him constantly.
He tried to eat, but the food seemed tasteless, and every bite required effort.
“Any plans for the evening?” he asked as casually as possible.
“No special plans,” Myra replied.
“Maybe Reed.
” “What about you, Patty?” “Watch TV, I guess.
” But around 8:00 that evening, Myra announced that she was going to the grocery store.
The shopping list she showed well was suspiciously short.
Milk, bread, eggs, things that could be bought in 10 minutes.
She left at 8.
Otwell waited 15 minutes and then decided to follow her.
He told Patty he was going to the pharmacy and drove away from the house.
Fry’s grocery store on Shea Boulevard was only a 5-minute drive from their house.
Otwell parked on the opposite side of the parking lot where he could see the entrance but remain unseen.
Myra’s car was in the parking lot, but he didn’t see her in the store.
After waiting 20 minutes, Otwell decided to go inside.
He walked through all the aisles and checked the cash registers, but Myra was nowhere to be found.
Returning to his car, he noticed that Myra’s car was still in the parking lot, but the warmth from the engine indicated that it had been driven recently.
There were grocery bags in the back seat, but Otwell didn’t remember seeing them there in the morning.
He waited another half hour, but Myra did not show up.
Finally, he decided to return home, hoping to arrive before his wife and not give himself away.
At home, Patty was sitting in the same place where he had left her, but now she was dressed in clean clothes and looked as if she had recently taken a shower.
“How was the pharmacy?” she asked.
“It’s closed.
” “I came for nothing.
That’s too bad.
” Myra returned around 10 with bags of groceries and apologies for her long absence.
I ran into a colleague and we talked for a long time, but Otwell noticed that the milk in the bag was warm, as if it had just been taken off the shelf, not bought 2 hours ago.
That night, he heard quiet footsteps in the hallway again, muffled voices, the creaking of floorboards.
The sounds continued until almost dawn.
Uwell lay with his eyes closed, pretending to be asleep, but every nerve in his body was tense.
At breakfast that morning, both women looked tired, but there was something special about their fatigue.
It was not exhaustion, but rather a pleasant relaxation after something important and meaningful.
Today is Saturday, Otwell said.
Maybe we could spend the day together.
Go somewhere.
Myra and Patty exchanged a quick glance.
I have plans with a friend, Myra said.
We made plans a long time ago.
Which friend? The pause was too long.
Jennifer from work.
Otwell knew all of Myra’s colleagues by name.
There was no Jennifer among them.
What about you, Patty? I’m going too.
Myra invited me.
After they left, Otwell remained alone in the house.
The silence was absolute but not peaceful.
He wandered from room to room, not knowing what to do with himself.
The entries in Myra’s diary spun around in his head.
She said she loves me.
P suggested we leave.
Uwell suspects something.
He opened his wife’s dresser drawer again, but the notebook was gone.
Around noon, Otwell decided to drive to Walmart where Myra worked.
He parked at the far end of the parking lot and called his wife at work.
Hi, honey.
How are you? Fine.
What’s up? Nothing.
just wanted to hear your voice.
Otwell, I’m at work.
I can’t talk long.
I understand.
See you tonight.
But Myra wasn’t at the store.
Otwell went inside and walked through the entire sales floor, checking the administrative offices.
Her workstation was empty.
He found James Parker near the warehouse.
Hi, James.
Is Myra at work? James looked surprised.
Myra, her shift ended at 2:00 today.
She left about half an hour ago.
I see.
Thank you.
But it was only 12 and Myra didn’t have a shift until 2:00 in the afternoon.
She worked from 8:00 in the morning until 5:00 in the evening on Saturdays.
In the evening, when the women returned home, they looked happy and relaxed.
Their clothes were slightly wrinkled, their hair was tassled, but their faces were lit up with satisfied smiles.
“How was your day?” Oughtwell asked.
“Great,” Myra replied.
Jennifer took us to a new restaurant.
“Where exactly?” “In downtown Scottsdale.
You wouldn’t know it.
” Otwell nodded, but mentally noted another lie to add to the growing list.
He knew downtown Scottsdale like the back of his hand and no new restaurants had opened there in months.
That night, when the house was finally quiet, Otwell made a decision.
He couldn’t live with the uncertainty any longer.
The diary entries, the constant lies, the secret meetings, it all added up to a picture he could no longer ignore.
Tomorrow he would find out the truth, whatever the cost.
He lay in bed next to his wife, who was pretending to be asleep, and planned the next day.
Myra worked on Sundays from 2 to 10 in the evening.
He would tell her he was going to see an old friend, but instead he would follow her to work.
If his suspicions were confirmed, if he saw what he feared to see, then Atwell didn’t know what would happen, but he was ready to find out the truth, no matter how painful it might be.
Sunday morning in Scottsdale was sunny and warm.
The temperature had risen to 28° which was considered excellent weather for early March.
Otwell woke up early despite a sleepless night.
Myra slept next to him, her back turned to him, breathing evenly and deeply.
In the morning light, her face looked peaceful, almost childlike.
It was hard to believe that this woman with whom he had shared a bed for 8 years could have deceived him so thoroughly.
Patty was also asleep on the sofa in the living room.
She was lying on her side hugging a pillow and looked younger than her 29 years.
An empty beer can stood on the coffee table next to the TV remote and a crumpled bag of chips.
It was a typical scene for a lazy Sunday morning.
Otwell made coffee and sat down at the kitchen table with the newspaper, but he couldn’t concentrate on reading.
The letters blurred before his eyes, and his thoughts kept returning to the same thing.
Today, he would find out the truth, whatever it turned out to be.
Myra got up around 10:00 in the morning.
She walked into the kitchen in her bathrobe, her hair tousled, but her movements were particularly smooth, almost dancing.
Good morning.
Morning.
fresh coffee.
She poured herself a cup and sat down across from him.
They were silent for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts.
“Are you working today?” “Totwell asked, even though he knew her schedule perfectly well.
” “Yes, from 2 to 10, Sunday shift.
” “I’m planning to visit Dave.
” “Haven’t seen him in a while.
” Dave was an old friend from college who lived in Tempe.
They really didn’t see each other very often, so the alibi seemed plausible.
Okay, see you tonight.
Myra finished her coffee and went to take a shower.
Otwell heard the sound of running water, then the hair dryer.
She was getting ready for work more carefully than usual.
Around 11, Patty finally woke up.
She looked rumpled and slightly hung over, but she was in a good mood.
“Any plans for the day?” Uwell asked.
“Nothing special.
Maybe I’ll go for a walk.
” Otwell nodded.
He knew that Patty’s walk would most likely end at the same Walmart where Myra worked.
At 1, Myra left for work.
Otwell waited half an hour, then left the house, too, telling Patty he was going to see a friend.
She barely looked up from the TV, waving goodbye.
The drive to Walmart took 15 minutes.
Otwell parked at the far end of the parking lot, where he could watch the entrances to the building, but remain unseen himself.
Myra’s car was in its usual spot in the employee section.
Nothing unusual happened for the first two hours.
Otwell saw Myra periodically appear in the sales area, talk to customers at the service counter, and check the cash registers.
The usual work routine.
Around 4:00 in the afternoon, a taxi pulled up to the parking lot.
Patty got out.
She looked around making sure no one she knew was nearby and headed for the staff entrance.
She had a pass or someone was waiting for her because the door opened immediately.
Uwell felt his heartbeat faster.
Patty didn’t work at Walmart.
She had no reason to enter through the staff entrance.
The only explanation was that she was meeting Myra there.
He waited another half hour, but neither woman appeared in the sales area.
Finally, Otwell decided to go into the store.
Inside, it was typical for a Sunday.
A moderate number of shoppers, a calm atmosphere.
Uwell walked past the cash registers looking for Myra.
She wasn’t at the customer service desk or in the administrative area.
He found James Parker near the electronics department.
Hi, James.
Is Myra around? Otwell? What are you doing here? James looked surprised.
Myra seems to be in the back room checking the delivery.
Which backroom? The one at the back.
Near the clothing department, Otwell nodded and headed in the indicated direction.
The corridor leading to the back rooms was dimly lit and deserted.
Most of the staff worked in the sales area and the warehouses were almost deserted on Sundays.
He found a door marked staff only and stopped to listen.
There were muffled sounds coming from inside.
Not voices, but something else.
The rustling of clothing.
Quiet sounds he couldn’t identify.
Otwell carefully turned the handle.
The door was unlocked.
What he saw in the dimly lit utility room made time stand still.
Myra and Patty stood embracing between the shelves of merchandise.
Myra’s blouse was unbuttoned.
Patty’s hand rested on her breast.
They kissed slowly, tenderly, with the intimacy of people who know each other very well.
This was not a first kiss, not a moment of weakness.
It was a scene between lovers.
Atwell stood in the doorway, unable to move.
His brain refused to process what he was seeing.
His wife and sister, the women he loved most in the world, together without him, cheating on him.
He didn’t remember how long he stood there.
Maybe seconds, maybe minutes.
The world had shrunk to this small room to two figures in the dim light of fluorescent lamps.
Patty was the first to notice him.
She jerked away from Myra, her eyes wide with horror.
Well, Myra turned around, her face was white as chalk, her hands trembled as she tried to button her blouse.
It’s not what you think, she began, but her voice sounded unconvincing even to herself.
Otwell said nothing.
He stood there looking at them and felt something break inside him.
Not just his heart or his trust, something more fundamental, the foundations of his existence, his understanding of who he was and what his world was like.
How long? He asked quietly.
The women exchanged glances.
Their eyes showed guilt, fear, but also something else.
Determination.
Well, we can explain, Patty began.
How long? He repeated louder.
6 months.
Myra whispered.
6 months.
6 months of lies, deception, secret meetings.
Half a year when he believed he was helping his sister cope with depression.
But in reality, they were laughing at him behind his back.
We didn’t want you to find out this way, Patty said.
We planned to talk to you.
You were planning.
Otwell felt something hot and angry rise in his chest.
When were you planning? After you moved in together? Myra flinched.
So, he had guessed right.
You read my diary.
Your diary? Otwell laughed.
But there was no joy in it.
You left it in the dresser drawer in our bedroom in the house I pay for.
Otwell calmed down.
Patty took a step forward.
We can discuss this like adults.
Something in her tone, that patronizing intonation destroyed the last remnants of Otwell’s self-control.
Like adults.
After 6 months of lies and betrayal, he saw an iron crowbar on the floor, a tool someone had left behind after working on the drawers.
His hand reached for it almost automatically.
Well, no.
Myra screamed.
But it was too late.
The rage that had been building up for weeks of suspicion and humiliation exploded.
Uwell didn’t remember raising the crowbar.
He didn’t remember the first blow.
His consciousness seemed to shut down, leaving only blind animal rage.
When the fog in his head cleared, both women were lying on the floor.
Myra was motionless, her eyes closed, blood oozing from her head.
Patty was trying to breathe, but bloody foam was coming out of her mouth.
Atwell stood over them with the tire iron in his hand, not understanding how this had happened.
A few seconds or minutes ago, they had been living people, his wife and sister.
Now, the tire iron fell from his hands and clattered onto the concrete floor.
He didn’t remember how he left the back room.
He didn’t remember how he got to the sales floor.
He only remembered the face of a middle-aged customer who approached him with a question about the location of an item and suddenly stopped when she saw the blood on his clothes.
“My God, what happened to you?” Otwell looked at her, then at his hands.
They were covered in blood.
“Call the police,” he said quietly.
“There’s been an accident.
” The next half hour passed in a blur.
First the store security arrived, then the ambulance, then the police.
Otwell sat on a bench near the customer service desk, surrounded by police and medics, answering questions mechanically.
Yes, he knew the victims.
They were his wife and sister.
No, he didn’t remember exactly what had happened.
Yes, he had been in the back room.
No, he didn’t remember why he had gone there.
Detective Michael Torres arrived an hour after the first call.
An experienced investigator at 42, he had seen many violent crimes, but this case seemed unusual to him from the start.
The crime scene was horrific.
Two women killed in the back room with an iron tire iron.
The amount of blood indicated multiple blows.
But the strangest thing was the behavior of the only witness, the man who discovered the bodies and reported the crime.
Otwell Collins sat in the sales room covered in the victim’s blood, calmly answering questions.
He did not try to hide, did not ask for a lawyer, showed no signs of panic or guilt.
He just sat there and repeated that it was an accident.
Mr. Collins, Detective Torres sat down next to him.
Can you tell me what happened? I found them there.
They were already dead.
Why did you go to the back room? Otwell paused.
I was looking for Myra.
I wanted to talk to her about what? Another pause.
Family matters.
Torres noticed that Collins hands were shaking, but his voice remained steady.
Classic signs of shock or a very wellrehearsed lie.
Mr. Collins, you understand that you will need to go to the station for further questioning? Otwell nodded.
I understand.
As he was led to the police car, the Walmart sales floor was filled with curious onlookers and reporters.
News of the double murder in Scottsdale had already made the local news.
Cameras flashed as Otwell was put into the car.
He looked out the window at the familiar parking lot where just a few hours ago he had waited, hoping to learn the truth about his wife.
Now he knew that truth and it had killed three people.
two women in the back room and himself, the man he had been that morning.
The police car pulled away, taking Otwell away from the place where his old life had ended and something completely new and terrible had begun.
The Scottsdale police station on a Sunday evening was a relatively quiet place.
Most serious crimes happened on weekends, but by 8:00 in the evening, the main wave of drunken fights and domestic disputes had usually subsided.
Detective Michael Torres sat in his office studying the initial reports from the crime scene at Walmart.
The photos from the scene were gruesome, even for an experienced investigator.
Two women lay in the back room among scattered boxes and merchandise.
The amount of blood on the walls and floor indicated the extreme brutality of the attack.
The medical examiner had preliminarily counted at least eight blows to each victim.
Otwell Collins had been sitting in the interrogation room for 3 hours after the blood had been washed off him and he had been given clean clothes.
He looked like an ordinary middle-aged American, a little tired, slightly confused, but not like a brutal killer.
Torres had seen many different criminals in his 18 years of service, and Collins did not fit the typical profile of someone capable of such brutality.
Mr. Collins.
Torres entered the room with a folder of documents and a cup of coffee.
How are you feeling? Fine.
I mean, I don’t know.
I still can’t believe it happened.
Torres turned on the tape recorder and sat down across from the suspect.
Tell me again what happened today.
Otwell repeated his version of events.
He came to the store to meet his wife, found the backroom door open, went in and discovered the bodies.
He didn’t remember the details.
He was in shock.
Why did you decide to meet your wife at work? Pause.
We were having family problems.
I wanted to talk to her.
What kind of problems? Another pause.
Longer this time.
Torres noticed Otuwell clenching and unclenching his fists.
My sister was living with us.
It was causing tension.
Tension between you and your wife? Between all of us? Torres took notes, observing the suspect’s body language.
Collins avoided direct eye contact.
His answers were brief and cautious.
Classic behavior of someone who is hiding something.
At 9, the results of the initial crime scene investigation arrived.
Officer Jenkins reported the main findings to the detective.
The murder weapon was found at the scene.
Collins fingerprints were on the tire iron.
The victim’s blood was on his clothes and hands, and there were no signs of a struggle or self-defense.
“We also found this,” Jenkins said, showing a clear bag with a cell phone.
“The suspect’s wife’s phone.
The last messages are from today.
Torres looked through the correspondence.
The messages between Myra and the contact P, obviously Patty, were openly intimate.
Plans to meet in the back room, expressions of love, discussions of a future together.
The last message was sent at 3:47 pm Can’t wait.
We’ll be free soon.
When Torres returned to the interrogation room, Otwell’s behavior had changed.
He was sitting more upright, his hands resting on the table, his gaze fixed on the wall behind the detective.
Mr. Collins, we found your wife’s phone.
Would you like to tell me about the nature of the relationship between Myra and Patty? Otwell closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, there was something new in his gaze.
Not guilt, but rather fatigue.
They were lovers, he said quietly.
How long have you known about this? I’ve suspected it for a few weeks.
Today I saw them together in the utility room.
A nod.
And what happened next? A long pause.
Otwell stared at his hands.
I don’t remember exactly.
I was furious.
They had been cheating on me for months in my own house.
Did you take the tire iron? I don’t remember.
Maybe.
Did you hit them? Another pause.
Maybe Torres knew he was getting a confession, but it was a very cautious one.
Collins wasn’t denying it, but he wasn’t directly admitting his guilt either.
Mr. Collins, I must inform you that you are suspected of murdering two people.
You have the right to an attorney.
I understand.
Would you like to contact an attorney? Otwell shook his head.
No, I want to tell the truth.
For the next hour, he described in detail the events of the past few weeks.
His suspicions, his surveillance, his discovery of Myra’s diary, his final decision to follow her to work.
His voice remained even, almost mechanical, as if he were recounting events that had happened to someone else.
When I saw them together, something broke inside me.
8 years of marriage, trust, love, it all turned out to be a lie.
They were planning to leave me and run away together and you decided to kill them.
I didn’t decide anything.
It just happened.
I grabbed a crowbar and I don’t remember much after that.
All I remember is them lying on the floor.
Torres studied the suspect’s face.
Collins showed no signs of remorse or regret, only fatigue and a strange sense of relief.
Do you regret what happened? Otwell thought for a few seconds.
I regret that it came to this, but I don’t regret that they can no longer hurt me.
At half midnight, Torres arrested Otwell Collins on charges of double firstdegree murder.
The court-appointed lawyer arrived the next morning and advised his client to change his plea to not guilty by reason of temporary insanity, but Otwell refused.
“I killed them,” he told his lawyer.
I see no point in denying it.
The case was prepared for trial over the next 3 months.
Expert reports confirmed that Collins had acted alone, that the murders had been committed in the heat of passion, but that he had been sane at the time of the crime.
A psychiatric examination revealed signs of depression and post-traumatic stress disorder, but no mental illness.
The trial lasted 2 weeks.
The prosecutor presented compelling evidence of guilt.
Fingerprints on the murder weapon, the victim’s blood on the defendant’s clothing, and his own testimony.
The defense sought leniency, citing Colin’s emotional state and the provocative behavior of the victims.
Otwell attended all the hearings, listening calmly to the testimony of witnesses and experts.
He showed no emotion when Myra’s colleagues described her as a loving wife and dedicated employee.
He did not react to descriptions of the victim’s wounds or photographs from the crime scene.
The only time he spoke was during sentencing.
The judge asked if he had anything to say before the verdict was announced.
Otwell stood up.
I want everyone to understand.
I am not a monster.
I am an ordinary person who was pushed to the limit.
Any man in my position could have done the same.
The jury returned a verdict of guilty of secondderee murder.
The judge sentenced Collins to 25 years in prison without the possibility of parole.
As he was led out of the courtroom, Detective Torres watched from the gallery.
During the investigation, he had studied the Collins family’s life in great detail.
Financial problems, stress, secret relationships between women.
All of this created the perfect storm for tragedy.
Torres had seen many crimes committed within families.
domestic violence, murders motivated by jealousy, infanticide.
Most of the perpetrators were either obvious sociopaths or people with a long history of aggressive behavior.
Collins did not fit into either category.
He was an ordinary man who broke down under the pressure of circumstances.
Perhaps the most dangerous type of criminal is the one no one sees coming.
A year after the trial, Torres received a letter from Collins in prison.
It was a short message written in neat handwriting.
Detective Torres, thank you for your professional work.
Justice has prevailed.
I accept my punishment and seek no sympathy.
I just wanted you to know that I don’t regret what I did.
They got what they deserved.
Torres kept the letter in the case file.
After 18 years on the force, he had learned not to judge criminals too harshly.
People are capable of terrible things in terrible circumstances.
Sometimes the line between victim and perpetrator is thinner than it seems.
The Collins case was closed and filed away.
Just another family tragedy in a long list of similar cases.
But sometimes late at night in his empty office, Torres wondered what could have prevented this tragedy.
open communication, family therapy, divorce, or are some things simply inevitable when trust is broken and love turns to hate? He would never know the answer.
Myra and Patty Collins were dead.
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