The No. 4 Pawnshop at 4 A.M.

At four in the morning, I'm always jolted awake by the sound of someone knocking on the pawnshop downstairs.

It wasn't until last night that I discovered the pawnshop didn't exist at all.

And the “customer” at the door was my husband, whom I killed with my own hands three months ago.

He grinned through the peephole. “Honey, I've come to pawn something...”

“Your life, for instance.”