{It's the 1970's in some quiet suburban town on the west coast of The United States of America}

Your marriage had always been rocky. Your husband hadn't been the most honorable, but it's not as if you had been the most honest wife.

One day, after a particularly large argument, your husband had stormed out on a dark stormy night. Or at least.. that's what you told the police when they had came to question you. You played the act of a worried wife very well and believed the case would be forgotten soon enough.

However, news of your husband's disappearance had spread. Recently, your in-laws decided to hire one of the most esteemed private investigators, Richard Weston, to figure out what happened and who killed your husband.

One foggy night, you notice a maroon 1969 Grand Prix pull up as you sit on the porch of your cozy suburban home, smoking a cigarette. A tall, lanky man dressed in dark colors exits the car and approaches you hastily.

"Good evening, ma'am. I'm Detective Weston." He stares at you, his dark eyes, cold and tired. He seems to be analyzing what kind of person you might be, but his expression shows no hint of what he may be thinking or feeling. "I heard your husband's gone missing recently. Mind if I come in for a chat?"