My husband died a week ago. I reported him as missing after a day. Cried when they came to the house, told them what a wonderful man he is, begging them to find him.

Then, five days later, a hiker found his body in the woods. Shot in the chest. Murdered.

They showed up at the house pretty quickly, saying they were taking me to a blood testing facility just to be sure. I was reluctant at first; I cried and asked them why in the world would they think I could kill my husband. I loved him. How could I kill him?

It was the life insurance policy that pointed them to me. I was sure of it.

They sat me down in the facility, drew my blood. I was already thinking of acts in my head to say I'd done. I'd have to have multiple. Murder turns blood the darkest.

But my blood was white as snow.

I'd never done anything evil in my life, save killing Jack. He was having an affair, anyway, and he chewed with his mouth open. Annoyed the crap out of me.

I realized, then, that I could get away with anything.

I married again. Walter. Old, but rich. Thought I was a trophy he could show off. Whenever he left for work, I'd go out, steal money or things I could pawn to get some. Or sometimes I'd just shoplift, though I'm not sure if - if my blood was like everyone else's - that would turn my blood darker, anyway.

Eventually, I decided it was time to kill my second husband. I was getting impatient waiting for him to die. They never found his body.

Then, I married Harry. Boring, dull, and stupid, but he inherited his parents' money, and it was so easy to get him to agree to leave everything to me. I waited a few months after he changed his will to kill him. They didn't find his body, and I told the police I suspected he'd run off with his childhood best friend, Kate. He talked about her all the time, but she lived on the streets after her parents disowned her when she got into drugs, and she'd disappear for months at a time. They didn't test me, just went looking for Kate. They'd never found a body.

I married again soon after that. Steve. A rich man, worth a lot of money. I made friends with his friends, pretended to be in love with him. Then, I killed him.

A couple months later, I married his friend Greg, the co-owner of their company. He'd talk about Steve all the time, wondering who in the world could've shot him. They never tested me - everyone he knew pointed them to someone else he'd made an enemy of, which seemed more likely. Maybe Greg suspected me, maybe he didn't.

Then, one day, he caught me with expensive jewelry I'd stolen just the other day. He knew he didn't buy it for me, even though I insisted I'd used his money to get them. He didn't believe me, especially not after he checked his account. Pity I had to kill him early.

When I brought out the gun, he realized something.

"It was you," he said. "You killed Steve."

I cocked the gun. "Oh, you're finally catching on."

"You kill me, so will the police," he said. "All of your previous husbands, getting shot or disappearing is going to raise suspicion."

"Then I'll just have them draw my blood. It's white as snow, Greg."

"Impossible."

"I know. But it is. I killed my first husband, and after they tested me, it was still white. I can get away anything. Just like I'm going to get away with this."

I shot him.

The neighbors heard the shot and called the police, so I had to pretend I shot him in self defense. I quickly bruised and scratched myself up before they got there. They tested me anyway.

I sat in the chair calmly, waiting for the results.

"It's black as coal."

My heart dropped into my stomach.

Why was it black? It couldn't be. Why would all of those killings show up, but not my first husband's? As they handcuffed me, I ran through the murder in my head.

I found the texts he'd sent to the other woman on his phone. I confronted him. He apologized, begged for forgiveness. I just kept screaming at him, even though I didn't really love him, anyway. I don't know why I cared.

Eventually, he started arguing back. I got angry, grabbed his gun, cocked it and aimed it at him. He ran forward, trying to take the gun out of my hands. His hand was on the trigger, where mine was, pulling it away.

In the end, he got my finger off the trigger, but in the struggle, he'd pulled it himself.

It didn't count.

And now, after pleading guilty, I've evaded the death sentence, but I'm still sitting here, in prison, and this is where I'll be for the rest of my life.

Maybe they'll make a documentary or something about me.