Things That Probably Explain Why I Write Crime ... Part Deux

Fascination with forensics led me from examining cremated chicken to fingerprinting.

Fingerprinting required concentration. Concentration required silence.

In my house, silence meant midnight.

So sometime around midnight, I started dusting for prints in the kitchen.

I printed everything.

Everything.

Glasses. Appliances. Counters. Handles. Doors.

Anything that looked remotely capable of harboring a fingerprint became evidence.

By the time I finished, it was far too late to clean up my mess.

Or so I decided.

The next morning, my husband got up to make coffee and stepped into a world covered in dirty fingerprints.

They were everywhere.

He checked the doors.

Had we been robbed?

And if we had, what kind of idiot burglar had broken in, touched absolutely everything, and thoughtfully left his fingerprints behind?

No burglar.

Just his wife.

Doing research.

At midnight.

This may also explain why my husband has learned not to ask too many questions.