The Wilsons

Hattie Wilson stared at the cracks in the ceiling and could not sleep. The anticipation of killing her husband was too much to bear, she was as giddy as a child on Christmas morning.

The bleeding had stopped but her jaw ached as she probed the gap from her missing tooth with her tongue. Tom Wilson had done this to her and now the Florida heat was making it worse.

Heavy footsteps approached and the doorknob rattled. She reached under the pillow to touch the rosewood of her revolver for reassurance. The gun sat silently with her and together they waited for the bedroom door to open so she could sit up, aim and fire. She would fire three rounds and save three to finish him off without reloading.

For days she had rehearsed what she would say to the police: I thought it was a burglar! I was so scared, it was dark! It was an accident, I didn’t mean to do it!

She had practiced getting hysterical and making herself cry on demand -- this would be the acting performance of her life.

As the bedroom door swung open, Tom Wilson never saw it coming. He was welcomed home with three rounds to the chest and one to the head. He was dead before he hit the floor.