This isn’t theater. Bill told me to tell the police that Mary had killed him. They’d rutted like minxes, and afterwards, she gave him wine laced with poison. Then buried him in the bank of the creek, with a love poem. I told them about Bill’s body and poem. They laughed, a crazy old deaf man who hears ghosts. I saw the message that night; a detective will be over tomorrow. The trigger clicks woke me before I died. Bill had a key to my apartment. How did Mary know. If you hear my plea, would you tell the police.