I know my husband is dead. I just don't know whether I killed him . . .
Charles and I were law students when I fell for him. He was handsome, charming, sure of himself—and he deigned to look at me. We had a dream-come-true courtship, wedding, and honeymoon, all orchestrated and paid for by his wealthy parents. Then he brought me home . . . And I woke up.
Nineteen months and a baby later, I'm standing in our pristine living room, looking at Charles lying in a pool of blood. I don't remember how I got here. The police are bound to think I killed him. But I didn't . . .
