A close friend asks you to help him kill his wife and, to his surprise, you agree without hesitation—not because you particularly dislike his wife, but because she’s the only person who knows this one deep, dark secret that could ruin your life forever. Write about how you confront her and how the murder plays out.


"Mitch! Mitchell!" Sara screamed, backing away from me and into an end table, sending a vase full of fake lilies and marbles cascading to the wood floor of her oh-so-prestine 1920's manor. God, I hoped Mitch moved once we took care of this. Everything was so dark here. Perfect setting for a murder. The cherry wood with gold trim, the ornate rugs and uncomfortable furniture--it was just awful.
"Mitchell's not coming," I told her, taking two steps forward, holding out the syringe.
"Mitchell!" she yelled again. "Is this about your mom? I won't tell. I swear."
I stepped on a howling dog toy and kicked it to the side. "My mom? Sara, you're a nurse. She had liver, kidney and colon cancer. She was dying. What kind of son would I be if I didn't help her out of her suffering when I had the means to do so?"
"That doesn't make it right," she whispered. 
Idiot, I thought. Even begging for her life Sara was still going to be uppity about her morals. Fine. That'll just make this easier. I did what my mom would have wanted if she had be lucid. Let her go easy. End the pain. Sara didn't know. She watched patient after patient we cared for die, but none of them were her family. 
"I've told you before, when my dad died of cancer after eight years of being in and out of treatment, she made me promise I would never keep her living on meds and machines," I said.
She backed into the kitchen. "You got a six million dollars inheritance," she said. 
She's probably going for a knife on the counter next to the sink or the alarm system next to the backdoor, I thought. "Mitch and I already removed anything you could use for a weapon in here and disarmed the alarm," I told her.
"You? Mitch?"
"That's right, sweetheart. Mitch asked me for this." I smiled. "It has nothing to do with my mom. That's just an added bonus. Kind of like a six million dollar inheritance that you seem to think an oncologist who went to Harvard would so desperately need he'd kill his mother for it and risk losing everything."
"But. I. He? He doesn't know. I never told him what you did." She had reached behind her back toward the counter by the sink, hand grasping for the knife set that wasn't there.
"He seems to have his own reasons," I said. I had her now. Back against the sink, she was cornered.