Meg was unlike any other woman I had ever known - smart, beautiful, and a murderer. We were opposites in almost every way. But, as they say, opposites attract, and we certainly did.

I was investigating a murder, the same one I had been working on for seven years. The victim was my wife, a lovely woman in her early thirties, her whole life ahead of her, brutally murdered in our home one night. I had walked through the back door that night - June 7th, 1991, to be exact - to see her body sprawled across the kitchen floor, her fist curled around the knife in her chest. It was, quite possibly, the most disturbing thing I have ever witnessed. I had thought that I was immune to the effects of blood and death, but I guess that it didn't apply in this case.

The police chief told me to let it go - she had obviously committed suicide. I didn't think so. Our marriage was happy, my wife too full of the joy of life to end her own. So I continued to investigate my wife's murder on my own, making calls and picking up evidence on my own time. Soon, however, I began to run out of leads. Each one that seemed promising turned out to be a dead end. I began to tell myself that I would just put my quest on hold until I found another lead, but in my heart I knew that I was giving up.

Then I met her. I was at the local Cineplex, trying to decide between Saving Private Ryan (I'd heard some good things, but death wasn't my favorite subject anymore) and Armageddon (same problem). All of a sudden, my attention was drawn from the garish movie posters to one of the most striking women I had ever seen - she carried herself with such grace and elegance that I couldn't help it. I bought a ticket to the movie that she was going to - You've Got Mail.

I followed her into the darkened movie theater and sat in the seat next to her. She whipped her head around to look at me, making her long blonde hair swing around her face. I figured that this was a good time to introduce myself, so I said, "The name's Sheffield - David Sheffield." I mentally cursed myself for the James Bond moment. Surprisingly though, she smiled and introduced herself as Meg Bennett, and we spent the rest of the movie whispering a running commentary into each other's ears. By the end of the night, we had decided to go out to dinner.

The next few months were a blur to me - lunch with Meg, coffee with Meg, dinners with Meg, shows with Meg - almost everything we did, we did it together. I was falling in love again, something I thought I'd never be able to do. When she fixed me with her deep blue stare, I would melt - she had me in the palm of her hand.

On November 19th, 1998, at DiMorini's Fancy Italian Restaurant, I asked Meg Bennett to marry me. She said yes, and as she did, it was as if her smile lit the entire room. By mutual consent, we agreed that she would come over to my place that night, and so we hopped into my VW Jetta and drove home, laughing and murmuring "I love you" to each other. As we reached my house, her face fell a bit, and she seemed a little nervous. I pretended not to notice, but I was a little worried. Was she not comfortable doing this so soon? Meg didn't resist as I led her to the back door, but as soon as we walked into the kitchen she stopped. "I don't think I can do this," she said, turning to me. Fear was in her eyes. "This place has a bad history for me," she said, and glanced at the exact spot on the floor where my wife had lain. My eyes grew wide and I slowly reached for the small gun I always kept in my left pocket.

She saw my hand draw the gun out of my pocket, and she began to cry. "It was a mistake," she sobbed, begging me with her eyes. "I never…I didn't mean…she was…"

"She was my wife," I said simply, and shot her.