One evening, long ago now, I overheard my husband speaking on the telephone. “She hasnt much time left,” he said. From that moment, I stopped taking the pills he gave me.
The study door stood ajarno more than the width of a fingerbut it was enough. His voice, usually soft as lambswool, now carried a dry, clinical tone.
“Yes, everything is proceeding as planned. The doctors say she hasnt much time left.”
I froze in the corridor, clutching a glass of water. In my other hand were two capsulesthe ones Sebastian Montgomery, my husband, brought me twice a day. “Your vitamins, my dear, to keep your strength up. To help you recover.”
Six months of marriage had accustomed me to this so-called care. I had grown used to the weakness, the fog in my mind, the way the wide world had shrunk to the walls of our townhouse. I had nearly convinced myself I was gravely, hopelessly ill.
But that phrase, tossed carelessly into the receiver, held no trace of tenderness. Only calculation, cold as steel.
On unsteady legs, I crept back to the bedroom, hands trembling. I went to the window, unlatched it, and without uncurling my fingers, dropped the capsules into the thick lilac bushes below. I would take no more of his medicine.
The next morning, he entered with a tray. The same smile, the same doting gazebut now I saw only the mask, and the predator beneath.
“Good morning, my sleeping beauty. Time for your medicine.”
I swallowed hard. “Ive already taken them,” I lied, keeping my voice even. “I found them on the nightstand and took them with water. I woke early.”
He frowned, just for a moment. His eyes flicked to the nightstand, the glass.
“Well done. Taking care of yourself. Thats a good sign.”
All day, I feigned the same lethargy as alwaysbut it was a struggle. My body, denied its usual dose of poison, rebelled. Chills wracked me, my head spun, and instead of fog, sharp, painful clarity flashed through me. I felt like an addict in withdrawal.
The next day, I again “took” the pills before he returnedflinging them into the lilacs. Sebastian was visibly displeased.
“Vera, darling, lets agree: youll wait for me. Timing is crucial with these.”
He grew watchful. He lingered in the bedroom, studying my face as though searching for something.
“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.
Nights became torment. I lay awake, feigning sleep, listening to his every breath. Each sigh sent an icy echo through my heart. One night, he rose and left.
I waited for the creak of his study door before slipping out after him, steadying myself against the wall to keep from swaying.
He was on the telephone again, his voice hushed.
“She suspects something. Refuses food, claims no appetite. Shes become too lucid. Her eyes have changed.”
I pressed myself against the wall. My heart pounded so loudly I feared he would hear.
“We must move faster. Ive spoken to the solicitor. Mr. Whitcombe is no fool. I told him you, as her physician, advised arranging power of attorney while she still has some semblance of understanding. Her signature, and its done. Eleanor Whitmores fortune becomes mine.”
Eleanor Whitmore. My mother. She had died a year prior, leaving everything to me. An inheritance my husband already considered his.
I made it back to bed just before he returned. He leaned over me, and I caught a sharp, chemical scent on his handsthe 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. The one passion Id kept from him.
I lifted a heavy crystal flacon. The scent of my past life seeped through the tightly sealed stopper.
“What are you doing here?” His voice behind me made me flinch. “You shouldnt be out of bed.”
I turned slowly. “I wanted to remember how I used to smell, before I reeked only of hospitals and medicine.”
He grimaced. “Nonsense. Dust collectors. Ive found an excellent antiques dealer. Hell give us a fair price for these. We need the money for your treatment.”
His fingers brushed the bottle in my hand. And then I understood. It wasnt just my money he wanted. He meant to erase memy past, my very self.
I lowered my eyes, hiding the hatred flaring within me. “Very well. Sell them, if you must.”
His grip loosened. He hadnt expected such obedience.
“Theres my sensible girl. I only want whats best for you.”
But I knew what to do. His arrogance would be his undoing.
Two days later, the solicitor arrivedan older, balding man with a briefcase that reeked of mothballs and legality. Mr. Whitcombe.
Sebastian hovered. “Veras terribly frail, Mr. Whitcombe. But she understands the importance of this. Its merely power of attorney while shes unwell.”
The solicitor cleared his throat and handed me the papers. I took the pen. My hand, once weak, now burned with purposeyet I forced it to tremble.
I leaned over the document, began to form the first letter of my namethen jerked violently, as if seized by a spasm. A thick blot of ink spread across the page.
“Oh, forgive me,” I stammered. “My hand wont obey.”
Sebastians face hardened.
“No matter,” he forced out. “We can reprint it.”
Mr. Whitcombe pursed his lips. “I have another appointment. But in this state are you certain your wife is of sound mind?”
First blood to me.
“Of course she is!” Sebastian snapped. “Its only muscle weakness.”
When the solicitor left, the mask slipped. He seized my shoulder. “What was that? You did that on purpose!”
“I feel ill,” I whispered, tears of fury springing to my eyes. “I cant control my body.”
He released me, but his gaze turned calculating. He no longer trusted me.
That night, I waited. When the house fell silent, I rose. His study was my destination. He always carried the safe key, but I knew he kept a spare behind the books.
I found it. Insidefiles of medical records, my mothers bank statements. And more: empty vials, a syringe, a prescription slip bearing the name of a doctor Id never metDr. Langford, specialist in neuropsychiatry.
I photographed everything with an old phone hidden in a shoebox. My trump cards.
The next day, Sebastian was all false tenderness. He brought breakfast and the usual “vitamins.”
“Take them, darling. You need your strength. The solicitor returns tomorrow.”
While he was in the kitchen, I pocketed the pills. I needed one for analysis.
All day, I sought a way to reach the outside world. Then I remembered. Theodore Hartwell. An old friend of my fathers, a barrister. His number lay buried in an old address book.
That evening, while Sebastian was out, I found the book. But how to call? My eyes fell on the rubbish bins. A reckless plan formed.
I took an empty perfume bottle, tucked inside a note with Theodores number and a plea for help, along with one capsule and my mothers broochvaluable in both sentiment and gold.
That night, I crept to the kitchen and threw it. The bottle clattered into the bin. Now, I waited.
Morning brought the rubbish lorry. Sebastian watched from the window. I watched him. The truck rumbled away. Silence.
“Get up,” he said coldly. “The solicitor arrives in an hour. And this time, Vera, your hand will not shake. Ill see to it.”
Mr. Whitcombe came at eleven. Sebastian sat opposite, his gaze heavy. I took the penbut this time, I let my eyes widen in terror.
“Theres a face,” I whispered, recoiling. “Staring at me from the letters. Horrible”
I began to hyperventilate, feigning panic.
“Vera, enough!” Sebastian hissed.
But the solicitor stood. “Ill have no part in this! Mr. Montgomery, your wife doesnt need a solicitorshe needs a psychiatrist. This is unconscionable.”
He left. Another reprieve.
Sebastian was silent. His eyes burned into me.
“You think youre clever? Fine. You want to be mad? Then mad youll be.”
He shoved me into the bedroom and locked the door. The trap had sprung.
Time passed. I sat on the floor when the telephone rang. I heard Sebastian answer.
Fragments reached me: “Who? What Theodore Hart
