An Alibi Written in Whiskey
My husband framed me, claiming I had murdered his sister.
At the exact moment the murder took place, I was being pulled over for a DUI.
But the witnesses, the physical evidence, the security footage—all of it pointed to me.
I swore I didn't do it. No one believed me.
My mother fainted in the courtroom; when she came to, she wouldn't even meet my eyes.
My lawyer shook his head and said, "Stop talking. The more you explain, the more you sound like the killer."
And my husband—he sobbed in court like the perfect, grief-stricken brother, pointed at me, and cried, "I never imagined the woman I shared a bed with could be such a demon."
In the end, I was sentenced to death. The moment the electricity coursed through my body, I opened my eyes.
I was back, an hour before the crime.
Ahead of me, the police were setting up a DUI checkpoint.
I grabbed the bottle of Maker's Mark whiskey, took two huge gulps, and slammed my foot on the gas.
If I was destined for a cage, I would choose my own.