Serial Killers: A Fictional Narrative

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Tom realised he'd been speaking to himself a second after he'd stepped through the door, and hung his jacket and tie on the foyer wall-hook. A glance into the darkened and silenced living-room adjacent told him that Lila wasn't in there. It was still barely nine o'clock, and his immediate thought was the she must be in her office, possibly working up the profile on his serial-killer.

Actually, that wasn't Tom's next thought, just the one that he wanted to believe, as the other possibility was that his wife was pissed with him for not having called, and had deliberately retired for the night to avoid his company. There was nothing the Detctive hated more than coming home to angry wife, pretending to be asleep, with her back turned to him, and not even acknowledging his presence when he slipped into next to her. It was funny, for a man who dealt with death every day, and had seen the worst of the worst, and had faced down the most depraved and evil men imaginable without fear, how his stomach always knotted up at the thougth that he may be in trouble with Lila. …show more content…
For a while, so immersed in his career, and not exactly a suave Casanova type, he'd believed that he'd never get married, or find his other half, and he'd almost resigned himself to being alone for the remainder of his life. Then they'd met, and hit it off, she the one woman who appeared to understand and appreciate his dry wit, and the fact that he was not always as serious as he appeared. His sense of humour was just different. And she'd also forgiven his lack of romanticism, ocassionally even laughing at it. Tom had never loved anyone in his life as he had Lila, and that was another problem. It made him jealous, and protective, and when they did fight, the temper he kept hideen in the depths of his soul sometimes made an appearance. He'd never struck Lila, but damn, on a couple of occasions he'd come
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