I accidentally overheard my husband speaking on the phone: “She doesnt have long left.” After that, I stopped taking the pills he gave me.
The study door was slightly ajarjust enough for his voice, usually soft and comforting like a warm blanket, to reach me in a dry, officious tone.
“Yes, everythings going according to plan. The doctors say she doesnt have long.”
I froze in the hallway, clutching a glass of water. In my other hand were two capsulesthe “vitamins” my husband, Sebastian Whitmore, had been giving me twice a day. “For your strength, my dear. To help you recover.”
Six months into our marriage, I had grown accustomed to this so-called carethe weakness, the fog in my head, the way my world had shrunk to the confines of our London flat. I had almost convinced myself I was gravely ill.
But that phrase, tossed into the phone receiver, held no trace of sympathy. Only cold, steely calculation.
I stumbled back to the bedroom, my hands trembling. At the window, I unclenched my fist and let the capsules fall into the thick lilac bushes below. I would never take another of his pills.
The next morning, he entered with a tray, wearing that same tender smile. But now, I saw only the maskand the predator beneath.
“Good morning, my sleeping beauty. Time for your medicine.”
I swallowed hard.
“Ive already taken them,” I lied, forcing my voice steady. “I found them on the nightstand and had them with water. I woke early.”
He frowned briefly, glancing at the nightstand, the glass.
“Good girl. Taking care of yourself. Thats a positive sign.”
I spent the day feigning my usual lethargy, but it was harder now. My body, deprived of its usual poison, rebelled. Chills wracked me, my head spun, and instead of fog, sharp bursts of clarity pierced throughlike withdrawal.
The following day, I again “took” the pills before he arrivedtossing them into the lilacs. Sebastians displeasure was evident.
“Veronica, we agreedyoud wait for me. Timing is crucial.”
He grew more watchful, lingering by my bedside, studying my face as if searching for betrayal.
“You look pale today. And your hands are cold. Perhaps we should increase the dose?”
“No need,” I whispered. “I feel a little better.”
It was a dangerous game of survival.
Nights became torturous. I lay awake, pretending to sleep, listening to his every rustle. Each sigh chilled me to the bone. One night, he slipped out.
I waited, then crept after him, steadying myself against the wall to keep from swaying.
He was on the phone again, this time hushed.
“She suspects something. Refuses food, claims no appetite. Shes become too… lucid. Her eyes have changed.”
I pressed against the wall. My heart pounded so loudly I feared hed hear it.
“We must move faster. Ive already spoken to the solicitor. Mr. Harrison understands. I told him you, as my physician, advised setting up power of attorney while shes still coherent. Her signature, and its done. Margarets estate will be mine.”
Margaret. My mother. She had died a year ago, leaving everything to methe inheritance my husband already considered his.
I barely made it back to bed before he returned. As he leaned over me, I caught the sharp, chemical scent on his handsthe smell of my “vitamins.”
The next morning, I dragged myself to the old dressing room. Deep in the wardrobe sat my collectionvintage perfume bottles. My one passion before him.
I lifted a heavy crystal flacon. Even sealed, the fragrance of my past life lingered.
“What are you doing here?” His voice behind me made me flinch. “You shouldnt be up.”
I turned slowly.
“Just remembering what I used to smell likebefore I reeked of hospitals and medicine.”
He grimaced.
“Nonsense. Dust collectors. Speaking ofI found an excellent antiques dealer. Hell pay well for these. We need the money for your treatment.”
His fingers brushed the bottle in my hand. And then I understood. He didnt just want my money. He wanted to erase memy identity, my past.
I lowered my eyes, hiding the flare of hatred. “Fine. Sell them if you must.”
His grip loosened. He hadnt expected compliance.
“Good girl. I only want whats best for you.”
But I already knew my next move. His arrogance would be his undoing.
Two days later, the solicitor arrivedan older, balding man with a briefcase that smelled of mothballs and legality. Mr. Harrison.
Sebastian fussed over me.
“Veronica is very weak, Mr. Harrison. But she understands the importance of this. Its just temporary authority while shes… unwell.”
The solicitor cleared his throat and handed me the papers. I picked up the pen. My hand, once feeble, now burned with resolvebut I made it shake.
I leaned over the document, began signingthen jerked my hand, spilling ink in just the right spot.
“Im so sorry,” I stammered. “My hand wont obey.”
Sebastians face hardened.
“No matter. We can reprint.”
Mr. Harrison frowned. “I have another appointment. But in this state… are you certain your wife is competent?”
First blow to his plan.
“Of course she is!” Sebastian snapped. “Its just muscle weakness.”
When the solicitor left, the mask of concern vanished. Sebastian grabbed my arm.
“Was that deliberate?”
“I feel sick,” I whispered, genuine tears wellingtears of fury. “I cant control my body.”
He released me, but his gaze turned icy. He no longer trusted me.
That night, I didnt sleep. I waited. When the house fell silent, I crept to his study. The safe key was always on him, but I knew he kept a duplicate behind the books.
I found it. Insidemedical records, bank statements, empty vials, a syringe. And a prescription slip for a Dr. Langley, a psychiatrist Id never met.
I photographed everything with an old phone hidden in a shoebox. My trump cards.
The next day, Sebastian was painfully tender, bringing breakfast and the usual “vitamins.”
“Take them, darling. You need strength. The solicitor returns tomorrow.”
While he was distracted, I pocketed one pill. I needed it analyzed.
I spent the day searching for a way outand remembered. Charles Whitaker. My fathers old friend, a barrister. His number was in an old address book.
But how to call? Then I spotted the rubbish bins. A reckless, desperate plan formed.
I tucked a noteCharless number, a plea for help, the pill, and Mothers brooch (sentimental and valuable)into an empty bottle and hurled it into the bin at night.
Morning came with the clatter of the rubbish truck. Sebastian watched from the window. I held my breath as the lorry drove off.
“Get up,” he said coldly. “The solicitor arrives in an hour. And this time, Veronica, your hand wont slip.”
Mr. Harrison returned promptly. Sebastians glare was heavy as I took the penthen gasped, staring at the paper in horror.
“Theres… a face in the letters,” I whispered, recoiling. “A terrible face…”
I hyperventilated, feigning panic.
“Veronica, stop this!” Sebastian hissed.
But the solicitor stood.
“I wont be party to this! Mr. Whitmore, your wife doesnt need a solicitorshe needs a psychiatric evaluation!”
He left. Another victory. Another delay.
Sebastians silence was lethal.
“Think youre clever? Fine. You want to be mad? You will be.”
He shoved me into the bedroom and locked the door. The trap had closed.
Then, the phone rang. I heard Sebastian answer, then snap: “Who is this? What do you mean, Charles Whitaker? What Bluebird?”
My signal had been received.
He stormed in. “Who is Charles? Why is he asking if the Bluebird is ready to fly?”
I stood slowly. “I dont know what you mean. Perhaps youre overworked, Sebastian.”
He raised a handjust as the front door burst open. Police officers entered, followed by Charles.
Sebastian froze. “What is this?”
“A rescue,” Charles said firmly. “Veronica, are you all right?”
I nodded. “Hes been keeping me prisoner. Drugging me.”
“This is a misunderstanding! My wife isnt well”
“Weve already tested the pill,” Charles interrupted, holding up an evidence bag. “Its a powerful antipsychotic. And I have proof of your fraud. This warrant says it all.”
Sebastians mask shattered. He was arrested.
Six months later, I sat in court as Sebastian and Dr. Langley
