An Inch of Truth

I feel my heart pounding in my ears, in my throat, even behind my eyeballs, as I sit at the police station, waiting for someone to take my statement.

A woman comes in and places a glass of water in front of me with a slight smile.

A smile that says, ‘I know how you’re feeling.’

I highly doubt that you do.

A smile that says, ‘It’s going to be okay.’

Will it, though?

A smile that carries every cliché known to man when someone doesn’t know what to say to you.

I feel her gaze on my face. She then pushes the glass closer to me as if the police station tap water could wash away the non-stop looping horror before my eyes.

In my peripheral vision, I see her stopping at the door for a moment, but then finally leaves without a word.

Good.

I still couldn’t decide if the inch-wide gap between the closet doors had been a curse or a blessing. A portal to the nightmare that will haunt me for the rest of my days. Simultaneously, a slit that helped me identify the bastard who murdered my husband. Only God knows how I held back my screams.

Finally, the door opens again and someone enters. The glass of water is foggy, covered in condensation.

“Hello, Mrs. Flores, I’m Officer Hernandez. I’m sorry for your loss. I know this is hard, but every detail—no matter how small—is critical and could help us.”

A drip forms on the side of the glass, right at the waterline.

My eyes are fixed on the ceiling light reflection flickering on the surface of the water. I press my hands into fists as I notice them shivering in the same rhythm.

“When did you find your husband?”

“Right away. I was there,” I say, and the memory tirelessly loops again.

“You were there?” the officer asks, shocked. “Mrs. Flores, you are extremely lucky to be alive. Where were you when it happened?”

Another loop.

“In the closet, two meters from where my husband fell.” The looping accelerates, as if someone clicked the 2x button on a video.

The drop starts crawling down, leaving a clear, transparent streak behind.

The loop had now incorporated the glass into it. I feel like I’m sitting at the bottom of that glass, ice-cold water weighing down on me. My surroundings are foggy, and the only view out is through yet another narrow gap.

Everything I see is in the shape of a thin slit. An inch-wide gap. A trail left behind by a drop of condensation water.

The looping fills me.

The closet. The gap. The glass. The drop.

The killer.

The closet. The glass. The gap. The drop.

The killer.

I know I’m at the police station, but my muscles are taken over by the same shivers that filled me last night.

The silence in the room is as heavy as the water, deafening like it was last night after the shot.

I tear my gaze away from the glass and look at the officer.

“Did you see the killer? Would you be able to identify them?” he asks, looking straight into my eyes.

The closet. The glass. The gap. The killer.

The killer.

My husband always said that I was a terrible liar.

“No. I was behind the coats and only saw their feet,” I say, forcing my lying voice to sound calm, hoping he doesn’t notice the flash of recognition in my eyes.