I overheard my husband murmuring into the phone: She hasnt got long left. After that, I stopped taking the pills he gave me.
The study door was ajarbarely the width of a fingerbut it was enough for his voice, usually soft as a cashmere blanket, to reach me sharp and clinical.
Yes, everythings going to plan. The doctors say she hasnt got long.
I froze in the hallway, clutching a glass of water in one hand. In the othertwo capsules, the ones Edmund Montgomery, my husband, brought me twice a day. Your vitamins, my dear. For strength. To help you recover.
Six months into our marriage, Id grown used to this care. Used to the weakness, the fog in my head, the way the vast world had narrowed to the walls of our London townhouse. Id almost believed I was gravely, hopelessly ill.
But that phrase, tossed carelessly into the receiver, held no trace of sympathy. Only a steel-cold calculation.
On numb legs, I crept back to the bedroom. My hands trembled. I pushed open the window and, without unclenching my fist, let the capsules drop into the thick hydrangea bushes below. I wouldnt take another of his pills.
The next morning, he entered with a tray. The same gentle smile, the same concerned gaze. Now, all I saw was the mask hiding the predator beneath.
Good morning, my sleeping beauty. Time for your medicine.
I swallowed thickly.
I already took them, I lied, forcing my voice steady. Found them on the nightstand. Drank them with water. Woke up early.
He frownedjust for a secondscanning the nightstand, the glass.
Good girl. Taking care of yourself. Thats a positive sign.
All day, I feigned my usual lethargy. But it was harder now. My body, denied its usual dose of poison, rebelled. Chills wracked me. My head spun. Instead of fog, sharp, painful bursts of clarity cut through. I felt like an addict in withdrawal.
The next day, I took the pills before he could seetossing them again into the hydrangeas. Edmunds displeasure was palpable.
Victoria, lets agree: you wait for me. Timing is crucial with these.
He grew more attentive. Lingered by my bedside, staring into my eyes as if searching for secrets.
Youre pale today. And your hands are cold. Perhaps we should increase the dose?
No need, I whispered. I feel a bit better.
It was a dangerous game of survival.
Nights became torture. I lay awake, feigning sleep, listening to his every breath. Each sigh sent icy echoes through my heart. One night, he rose and left.
I waited for the creak of his study door, then crept after him, clinging to the walls to steady myself.
He was on the phone again, his voice low, almost a whisper.
She suspects something. Wont eat, claims no appetite. Shes too lucid now. Her eyes have changed.
I pressed against the wall. My heart thundered so loudly, I feared hed hear it.
We need to move faster. Ive spoken to the solicitor. Mr. Whitmore understands. I told him you, as her doctor, advised power of attorney while shes still coherent. Her signature, and its done. Eleanor Whitmores estate will be mine.
Eleanor Whitmore. My mother. Shed passed a year ago, leaving everything to me. The inheritance my husband already considered his.
I slipped back into bed just before he returned. He leaned over me, and I caught the sharp, chemical scent clinging to his hands. The smell of my vitamins.
The next morning, I dragged myself to the old dressing room. There, buried deep in the wardrobe, stood my collectionvintage perfume bottles. My one passion before him.
I picked up a heavy crystal flacon. Even through the tight seal, the ghost of my old life lingered.
What are you doing here? His voice behind me made me jump. You shouldnt be up.
I turned slowly.
I wanted to remember what I smelled like before I reeked of antiseptic and medicine.
He grimaced.
Nonsense. Dust collectors. Speaking ofI found an excellent antiques dealer. Hell pay well for all this glass. 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 past, my very self.
I lowered my eyes, hiding the flare of hatred. Nodded slowly.
Fine. Sell it, if you must.
His grip loosened. He hadnt expected surrender.
Thats my girl. I only want whats best for you.
But I knew my move now. His arrogance would be his undoing.
Two days later, the solicitor arrived. Mr. Whitmore, a balding, stern-faced man with a briefcase that smelled of mothballs and legality. Edmund hovered.
Victorias very weak, Mr. Whitmore. But she understands the importance. Just power of attorney while shes unwell.
The solicitor coughed, sliding the papers toward me. I took the pen. My hand, once feeble, now pulsed with strengthbut I forced it to shake.
I leaned over, began to signthen jerked violently. A thick ink blot spread exactly where it needed to.
Oh, Im so sorry I stammered. My hand it wont obey.
Edmunds face hardened.
No matter. We can reprint.
Mr. Whitmore pursed his lips.
I have another appointment. But in this state are you certain your wife is competent?
The first crack in Edmunds plan.
Of course she is! he snapped, too loud. Its just muscle weakness!
When the solicitor left, Edmunds mask shattered. He seized my arm.
What was that? You did that on purpose!
I feel faint, I whispered, real tears of fury welling. I cant control my body.
He released me, but his eyes were ice. He no longer trusted me.
That night, I didnt sleep. I waited. When the house fell silent, I rose. His study. The safe. He always carried the key, but I knew he hid a spare behind the books.
I found it. Insidemedical records, bank statements. And more: empty vials, a syringe. A prescription pad with a name I didnt recognizeDr. A. L. Harrow, specialist in neuropharmacology.
I photographed everything with an old phone hidden in a shoebox. My trump cards.
The next day, Edmund was sickeningly sweet. Brought breakfast, offered the vitamins.
Take them, darling. You need strength. The solicitors coming tomorrow.
While he was distracted, I pocketed a pill. I needed it analyzed.
All day, I searched for a way out. Then I remembered. Arthur Caldwell. My fathers old friend, a barrister. His number was in an old address book.
That evening, while Edmund was out, I found it. But how to call? Thenthe bins. A reckless, mad idea took shape.
I took an empty bottle, tucked in a note with Arthurs number and a plea for help. Added the pill. And my mothers broochsomething valuable enough to catch attention.
At night, I crept to the kitchen. Threw it. The bottle arced, landed with a thud in the bin. NowI waited.
Morning came with the rumble of the rubbish lorry. Edmund watched from the window. The truck moved on. Silence.
Get up, he said coldly. The solicitors coming in an hour. And this time, Victoria, your hand wont slip. Ill make sure of it.
Mr. Whitmore arrived at eleven. Edmund sat opposite, his gaze heavy. I picked up the penthen gasped, recoiling.
Theres a face in the letters! I whispered, feigning terror. Its watching me!
Edmund hissed. Victoria, stop this!
But Mr. Whitmore stood.
I wont be party to this! Mr. Montgomery, your wife doesnt need a solicitorshe needs a psychiatric evaluation!
He left. Another delay. Victory.
Edmund was silent. His eyes burned.
Think youre clever? Fine. You want to be mad? You will be.
He shoved me into the bedroom, locked the door. The trap closed.
Time crawled. Thenthe phone rang. I heard Edmund answer.
Who? What Arthur Caldwell? What are you
He slammed the receiver down. Stormed in.
Who the hell is Arthur Caldwell? he snarled. And why is he asking if the bluebird is ready to fly?
The bluebird. Our old code. My message had reached him.
I stood
