The early June sun cast a gentle, comforting heat across my shoulders as I made my way along the neat rows of headstones. The Philadelphia cemetery was a quiet city of its own, with monuments of marble and granite standing in silent tribute in every shape and hue imaginable. These walks among the dead brought me no pleasure, of course, but they were a grim necessity, a ritual I had to endure simply to make it through another day.
I moved carefully, respectfully, not wanting to disturb the few visitors who had come to pay their respects to their own departed. My eyes scanned the graves, looking for the offerings left behind—a wrapped piece of candy, a cookie sealed in plastic, a slice of bread. It was a meager way to survive, and I’d earned my share of scolding for it from the older women who begged at the cemetery gates.
“Julie, you keep wandering among the dead like this, and what’s to become of that baby of yours? It just ain’t right,” Helen, a woman who’d called the streets home for years, would chide me. “Lord knows what kind of shadows cling to this place after dark. What if some curse or evil eye latches onto your child? You’ll be up all night wondering why your little one is screaming like they’ve seen a ghost.”
I always brushed her off with a toughness I didn’t truly feel. “Oh, Helen, no curse in the world scares me anymore. After three years locked away, I’ve seen enough to frighten off any witch or devil myself.”
I was putting on a brave face, and it was a thin one at that. If I hadn’t been so utterly desperate, if any decent job had been within my reach, my feet would never have walked this sorrowful ground. But I was out of options. You see, for nearly seven months now, a new life had been growing inside me. I’d been released on parole from a prison in upstate Pennsylvania just three weeks earlier, and this child was the result of a relationship with a young guard there. It was only now, in the crushing silence of freedom, that I began to understand the bitter truth: without this pregnancy, I’d probably still be far from free.
My mind drifted back to the cold, appraising stare of the detective in the Philadelphia police station. I was pale, exhausted from the strain of my husband’s funeral, and completely unprepared for his questioning.
“Julia Marie, we’ve received the full results of our investigation,” the officer began, his tone dry and impersonal, “including the fingerprint analysis our team conducted at your residence.” “And?” I managed to ask, my voice weak. “Can you please tell me what happened to my husband? Why did his heart just stop like that?” The detective looked down at me, and the corner of his mouth gave a slight, mocking twitch. “You don’t have any idea, do you?” he shot back, answering my question with one of his own.
“Well, alright then. If you’re going to stick to your little act, I’ll spell it out for you so there’s no misunderstanding. Your husband was murdered.” “What?” I gasped, the air rushing from my lungs. “Murdered? That’s impossible!”
“First of all, don’t you raise your voice at me!” he barked, slamming his hand down on the smooth wooden desk for emphasis. “Second, cut the act. Your husband, Julia Marie, was deliberately poisoned. And we know for a fact it was you, because the only fingerprints on the decanter that held the poison are yours.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. A cold, prickling sensation ran down my arms and legs. For several agonizing seconds, I couldn’t catch my breath, and when I finally spoke, my lips felt numb. “That can’t be! I would never, ever hurt Victor. I loved him!”
All I heard in response was the detective’s grating, hoarse laugh.
“You know, Ms. Thompson, every other woman who’s killed her husband says the exact same thing you’re saying now. They all refuse to confess right away, hoping against hope there’s been some kind of mistake.” “But it is the truth,” I insisted, my voice trembling. “Why would I put poison in the water? Someone else could have done it and then wiped the decanter clean. I only picked it up after I found Victor in his study.”
A flicker of irony passed over the detective’s face. He scribbled a note in his pad before fixing his small, intense eyes on me again. “What, were you eager to get your hands on Victor’s apartment after he was gone?” he continued, as if we were discussing the weather.
“It’s almost understandable,” he said with a shrug. “A massive two-story condo in a fancy Center City complex, a respectable art collection. I suppose you figured there was no point waiting for him to find a mistress and push you aside, leaving you with nothing in a divorce.”
“That’s disgusting,” I snapped, a hot flush of anger rising in my cheeks. “How can you even suggest something so vile?”
“I don’t know anything about a mistress. My husband was a simple businessman; he sold furniture, he didn’t run an oil empire. Yes, that apartment was the most valuable thing he’d ever managed to buy, but he never once mentioned divorce. And even if he had, Victor was a good man. I’m certain he would never have treated me the way you’re implying.”….
