CRIES OF MURDER

this is a ROUGH DRAFT of my book (it's the Frist chapter) please give me tips on how to improve

It was an evening like any other, around 9:30 p.m., when a woman, no older than 25, began crying hysterically, claiming that her husband of five years had been killed in their own home.
For a moment, I stood in shock, my face betraying nothing, but my assistant, James Brown, gasped—his first week on the job had already led him into a horrifying scene.
“Mam, we need to know everything that happened. Don’t leave out any details,” Mr. Brown said, trying to maintain composure.
“Well, yesterday evening, around 7:15 p.m., Jackson and I were debating where to spend Christmas. I told him we had already visited his parents for Thanksgiving, so could we please go to mine this year? Jack replied, ‘Honey, my parents are 95 and 96. This might be the last time I see them.’ I compromised, suggesting we spend Christmas Eve with his family and Christmas Day with mine. Jack said that sounded just fine. Afterward, we went to bed around 10:30 p.m., as Jack had work in the morning. At 7:00 a.m., I woke up and made breakfast for both of us. Jack came down to the smell of bacon and eggs at 7:15 a.m.” She smiled briefly, her eyes glossing over with the memory of happier times. “At 8:30 a.m., Jack left for work, and I started cleaning the house. By 10:00 a.m., I had finished and decided to read The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger for about three hours. At 1:10 p.m., I began preparing lunch.”
“Did anything seem out of the ordinary with your husband?” Mr. Brown asked, his voice steady but soft.
“No. Nothing seemed unusual,” she replied, her voice breaking with the weight of the words.
“Make sure to tell us if you remember anything else,” Brown insisted.
“Anyway,” she continued, her gaze distant. “At 2:30 p.m., Jack came home from work, and we ate lunch together. At 3:00 p.m., he took a nap while I went grocery shopping. At 3:45 p.m., I came back home… and found him on the doorstep. One arm stretched toward the road, the other clutching his stomach where a knife was lodged.”
Her sobs were uncontrollable now, but I had to keep focused. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said, my voice calm in contrast to the chaos around us. “What’s your address, ma’am?”
“214 Avenue,” she whispered through her tears.
“Thank you. I’ll have my assistant book you a motel for the time being,” I told her. After she left with Brown, I remained behind, my mind whirling with the details of her story.
By 10:00 p.m., I left the office with James. He seemed anxious, his hands trembling slightly.
“James, are you alright?” I asked, noticing his discomfort.
“The woman’s cries… they were blood-curdling,” he replied, his voice shaky.
We arrived at our apartment complex, each of us retreating to our separate spaces. But sleep eluded me. I couldn’t stop thinking: How? How could something so violent happen so suddenly?
At 5:30 a.m., I prepared for work. I showered, donned my trench coat, fedora, shirt and tie, high-rise pants, and black dress shoes. A gun holster rested at my side—something I didn’t plan to use unless absolutely necessary.
By 6:05 a.m., James and I carpooled to the woman’s house. We arrived at 6:45 a.m. to find her sitting on the doorstep, her gaze empty and distant. When she looked up and saw me, her face twisted in horror.
“Murderer! You’re the one who killed Jack!” she screamed, pointing a trembling finger at me.
The accusation hung heavily in the air, but I didn’t flinch. Inside the house, I sat on the couch, trying to process what had just happened. My thoughts swirled uncontrollably. She knows… they all know. The voices… the voices are coming for me.
I reached for my gun. I must end this. With trembling hands, I raised it to my head.
BANG!
Everything went silent…