In an elaborate wardrobe of human emotion guilt is the itchy, wooly turtle-neck, three sizes too small. Spencer Lockett had never experienced wearing the undesirable jumper - she never would.
She had the appearance of an angel (without the halo). Pale in complex, with hair like gravy, running down her head and clumping at her shoulders. An essence of ethereal beauty surrounded her like a fog. Lurking behind her saint-like surface was a much darker reality.
Today was the thirteenth of July, 2011. The summer heat drew a trickle of perspiration to her brow; she wiped it away elegantly, with a fast sweep of her hand. She was staring out of the newly-polished window, admiring the tall grass and the colours of the flowers that illuminated the field. She noticed a bee whirring as it stole pollen from its victim; she couldn't help but think of how she would be like that thieving perpetrator.
"Spencer," a voice called. "Are you in here?"
It was Matthew: her husband. She had been attracted to him like a magnet, his charm and chit-chat had won her over. She should have known.
"Yes," she answered. Her tone was monotonous in a bid to conceal her evil intentions traipsing through the cracks in her cleverly-concocted words. "I've been thinking maybe we could take a walk up to the lake today- if you have time."
"Of course sweetheart," he said. "You know I always have time for you."
She stared again out of the window and began to lose herself in an abundance of thoughts. She didn't know, not at all. To her it seemed he only had time for Alison (his secretary). Spencer guessed their secret conclaves had been going on for a lot longer than she had known; a lot longer than she could bear to think about. It was time for her sweet revenge. She imagined it would be riveted with guilt: like when you eat sweets after several weeks of successful dieting. But she was ready for the sweet, sweet taste.

They had reached the like at 3:52pm. Seven minutes left.
"I love you," Matthew said.
Spencer's shoulders dropped; they hung like life hated her. The words were a punch in the gut.
"Stop making this difficult for me," she screamed at him; she screamed at the top of her voice.
"M-making what difficult?" Toby stuttered. "Spencer what are you talking about?"
"I know," she bellowed. "I know about you and Alison," her voice croaked as tears stole her words.
"I-I'm sorry, I-let me explain," he could see the sinister look in her eyes. Too late; too late to explain; too late to apologise.
She reached into her pocket from which she lifted the sharp, heavy blade. She plunged at him. The blade pieced his shirt, then his skin, then his heart. It was not as she had planned, but that did not matter. She loomed over his lifeless corps and congratulated herself on serving justice. Like the bee had stolen pollen to survive, she had stolen a life - to her there was no difference.
She was mesmerised by the small trickle of blood, seeping from the corner of his mouth; she wiped it away elegantly, with a fast sweep of her hand. It would be reassuring to think rivers of guilt ran from her vacant eyes, the did not. Not so deep inside her mangled mind she was happy and this was evident. Guilt was not given a thought. The only though to break in to the cage she could not escape was chilling. It was 'the traitor was dead'.