48 HOURS Over the Edge Over the railing he went. He told me he had lost his words. He told me he killed his wife. He was just a businessman, the last you’d think. Everyone who ever met him settled in California. The local paper slept with its secrets. No one went driving. It was not conviction. He returned in time and in sentences. He confessed. Then I wrote another story: blood spatter, customers, investigators. It ended at an edge that did not kill. He landed on his feet.
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