miss fitz was not a murderer.

no, no, that was a thing she was not.

she could be called many things. a slut, a thief, a snake. gold-digger. a backstabbing bitch, if you really must. she would bear those names with the knowledge that they were not entirely false. in the dead of night, when she's alone, she knows she isn't the best person. but she didnt *kill* people.

she didn't.

he just came up on her. she wasn't thinking.

the pocketknife is for self defense. and she supposes this could be called as such. he was going to hit her with that chair. but how would any lawyer argue that, how would anyone trust her at her word, when he was killed within his own house, where she was not permitted to be, and then made off with his lady's jewelry box.

really, she would put it back. she would! it isn't worth killing someone over a jewelry box, and it would be the least she could do for the poor new widow. but, you see, her fingerprints had gotten on it. she was transfixed, she'd taken off a glove to feel the gems. she couldn't risk it. it had to come with her.

she had to leave. she just wanted to go home, and never see that man's vacant eyes again.

*i'll never steal again.*

she whispered to the empty air, a promise or a prayer, sitting on her bed and clutching the jewelry box.

*i'll never steal again, just don't send me to prison. don't send me to prison, please.*

the news filled the headlines. the investigation was frantic, and the suspects list was long. but the murderer of mr. evenworth was never found.

and it was only natural that they weren't.

for miss fitz was not a murderer.

2-19-25