Beatrice took a sip of champagne.
“Soon,” she said. “I changed his heart meds three weeks ago, and I’ve been crushing crush digoxin in his morning smoothies. He’ll go to sleep one day and never wake up. Then we take everything.”
I felt the air escape the room.
For four decades I had prayed with this woman over my food, held her hand in hospitals, and seen her face smile at me over breakfast tables.
And for those 40 years, she was poisoning me each day.
The last nail in the coffin was when Megan asked Beatrice something about Terrence being too trusting.
Beatrice smiled and said, “He got that from his father.”
Megan responded with disgust, “Elijah?”
“No,” Beatrice said. “Terrence is Silas’s son.”
Pastor Silas Jenkins.
My best friend.
The man who married me, baptized my son, and ate Sunday dinners with me for the past thirty years.
I wanted to destroy the monitor, but Tony put his hand on my arm.
“If you break this, you lose your only advantage,” said Tony. “This is more than just a family feud; it’s a consortium.”If I went home and screamed, Beatrice would think I was nuts. She would claim that the poison destroyed my brain—she couldn’t be proven wrong without evidence.
So I called my attorney, Ms. Sterling.
I told her, “Open a new file: Code name Omega. Freeze all accounts, lock all properties, suspend trust access, and find me a toxicologist. Test for digoxin.”
Then I went home.
Beatrice was waiting for me with a green smoothie.
She said, “I made your favourite. I know you missed it this morning.”
I took the glass, pretended to drink it; the taste was bitter underneath the ginger, so I spat it into a napkin when she wasn’t looking, then acted weak.
Thirty minutes later, I collapsed onto the living room carpet.
Beatrice didn’t scream.
Beatrice didn’t call for help.
She nudged me with her foot and whispered to me, “Wake up, old man.”
When I didn’t move, she laughed.