"I told you - it's from a shaving cut. I nicked myself while shaving this morning and blood got on my shirt, big deal." John told the lie, knowing it would have to do, "What part of that do you not understand?"

After just having returned home from a long, exhausting day of hard work, he didn't feel like fighting. But here you were, throwing accusations around because a dark, almost imperceptible (but unmistakable) crimson stain marred the fabric of the collar of his white shirt - a red smudge that shouldn’t have been there.

Cheating would be far easier to explain than the fact he was a stone-cold killer. He wasn't about to reveal his secret, he’d never come clean, not about the things he did when he left the house, not when you still held the illusion of the man you thought you knew, though he was getting fed up with your fit of jealousy. The truth was, the red stain wasn’t from lipstick. It wasn’t even from him at all.

He breathed a frustrated sigh, turning away so he didn't have to see your eyes searching for any trace of honesty in his and he pulled his tie loose. "You're imagining things." He wanted to tell you the right words, but there were no right words, there never were. Sometimes, he had to do things he couldn't explain.