I accidentally overheard my husband on the phone: “She hasnt got long left.” After that, I stopped taking the pills hed been giving me.
The study door was ajarjust a crack, but enough for his voice, usually soft and comforting like a warm blanket, to reach me in a dry, clinical tone.
“Yes, everythings on track. The doctors say she hasnt got long.”
I froze in the hallway, clutching a glass of water in one hand. In the other, two capsulesmy “vitamins,” as Edward always called them. “To keep your strength up, my love. 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 shrunk to the walls of our London townhouse. Id almost convinced myself I was terminally ill.
But that phrase, tossed carelessly into the phone receiver, held no hint of sorrow. Only calculationcold as steel.
On unsteady legs, I crept back to the bedroom, hands trembling. I opened the window and, without loosening my fist, tossed the capsules into the thick lilac bushes below. I wouldnt take another of his pills.
The next morning, he entered with the tray. The same smile, the same “concerned” gaze. But now, I saw only the maskand 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. Woke up early.”
He frownedjust for a second. His eyes flicked to the nightstand, the glass.
“Good girl. Taking care of yourself. Thats progress.”
All day, I pretended to be as lethargic as usual. But my body, denied its usual dose of poison, rebelled. Chills wracked me, my head spun, and where there had been fog, sharp clarity now flared. I felt like an addict in withdrawal.
The next day, I “took” the pills before he arrivedflinging them into the lilacs. Edwards displeasure was plain.
“Veronica, lets agreeyoull wait for me. Timing is crucial.”
He grew more watchful. Lingered by my bedside, staring into my eyes as if searching for something.
“You look pale today. And your hands are freezing. Should we increase the dose?”
“No need,” I whispered. “Im feeling a bit better.”
It was a dangerous game of survival.
Nights became torture. I lay awake, feigning sleep while listening to his every movement. Each sigh of his sent ice through my veins. One night, he slipped out.
I waited for the creak of his study door, then followed, gripping the wall to stay upright.
He was on the phone again, murmuring low.
“Shes suspicious. Refuses food, says shes not hungry. Too… alert. Her eyes have changed.”
I pressed against the wall. My heart pounded so loudly I feared hed hear it.
“We need to move faster. The solicitors arranged everything. Mr. Whitcombe understands. I told him, as her doctor, you advised power of attorney while shes still lucid. Her signature, and its done. Margarets estate will be mine.”
Margaret. My mother. Shed died a year ago, leaving everything to me. The fortune my husband already considered his.
I barely made it back to bed before he returned. He leaned over me, and I caught the sharp chemical scent on his handsthe scent of my “vitamins.”
The next morning, I dragged myself to the old dressing room. There, buried in the wardrobe, was my collectionvintage perfume bottles. My one passion before him.
I lifted a heavy crystal flacon. Even sealed, the scent of my past life lingered.
“What are you doing?” His voice behind me made me jump. “You shouldnt be up.”
I turned slowly.
“Just remembering what I used to smell likebefore hospital sterility.”
He grimaced.
“Nonsense. Dust collectors. Speaking of, I found an excellent antiques dealer. Hell pay well for these. We need the money for your treatment.”
His fingers closed around the bottle in my hand. And then I understood. He didnt just want my money. He wanted to erase memy past, my identity.
I lowered my eyes, hiding the hatred. “Fine. Sell them if you must.”
His grip loosened. He hadnt expected surrender.
“Good 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 arrivedMr. Whitcombe, a balding man with a briefcase that smelled of mothballs and legal ink. Edward hovered.
“Veronicas very weak, Mr. Whitcombe. But she understands the importance. Just power of attorney while shes… unwell.”
The solicitor coughed and handed me the papers. I took the pen. My hand, once feeble, now burned with strengthbut I forced it to tremble.
I bent over the document, began my first initialthen jerked violently. A fat inkblot spread exactly where it needed to.
“Sorry,” I stammered. “My handit wont obey.”
Edwards face hardened.
“No matter,” he said tightly. “We can reprint.”
Mr. Whitcombe pursed his lips.
“I have another appointment. In this state… are you certain your wife is competent?”
First strike.
“Of course she is!” Edward snapped. “Just muscle weakness.”
When the solicitor left, Edwards mask fell. He seized my arm.
“What was that? You did that on purpose!”
“I feel sick,” I whispered, real tears of rage welling. “I cant control it.”
He released me, but his eyes held cold calculation. He no longer trusted me.
That night, I didnt sleep. I waited. Late, when the house was silent, I slipped out. His study was my target. The safe key was always on him, but I knew where he hid the spare.
Insidemedical records, bank statements. Empty vials, a syringe. And a prescription slip for a Dr. A.R. Langley, psychiatrist.
I photographed everything with an old phone hidden in a shoebox. My trump cards.
The next day, Edward was overly tender. Brought breakfast, offered the pills.
“Take them, love. You need strength. The solicitors coming tomorrow.”
While he was out, I pocketed one pill. I needed it analyzed.
All day, I searched for a way out. Then I rememberedThomas Whitmore. My fathers old friend, a barrister. His number was in an old address book.
But how to call? Then I saw the bins. A reckless, desperate plan formed.
I took an empty perfume bottle. Inside, I tucked a noteThomass number, a plea for help, the pill, and my mothers broochvaluable enough to catch attention.
That night, I crept to the kitchen and hurled the bottle into the bin. Now, I waited.
Morning brought the bin lorrys rumble. Edward watched from the window. I watched him. The truck roared. My heart stopped. Then silence.
“Get up,” he said coldly. “The solicitors coming in an hour. And this time, Veronica, your hand wont slip. Ill make sure of it.”
Mr. Whitcombe arrived at eleven. Edward sat opposite, his gaze heavy. I took the penthen gasped.
“Theres… a face in the letters,” I whispered, recoiling. “Watching me…”
I hyperventilated, feigning panic.
“Veronica, stop this!” Edward hissed.
But the solicitor stood.
“I wont be party to this! Edward, your wife doesnt need power of attorneyshe needs a psychiatric evaluation. This is unlawful.”
He left. Another victory. Another delay.
Edward was silent. His eyes burned.
“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 sprung.
Time crawled. I sat on the floor when the phone rang. Edward answered.
Fragments reached me: “Who is this?… Thomas Whitmore?… I dont understand”
He slammed the receiver down. Footsteps pounded. The door burst open.
“Who the hell is Thomas Whitmore?” he snarled. “And why is he asking if the bluebird is ready to fly? What nonsense is this?”
The bluebird. Our old code. My message had been received.
I stood slowly.
“No idea what you mean,” I said calmly. “Perhaps youre overworked, Edward?”
He raised a handbut the front door shuddered under a heavy knock. Police officers and Thomas Whitmore stormed in.
Edward froze.
“What is this?”
“A rescue,” Thomas said firmly. “Veronica, are you all right?”
I nodded.
“He locked me in. Drugged
