She gave me a long, understanding look and nodded. Our daughter came home for the weekend. Seeing me pale and weak, she burst into tears.
Why didn’t you tell me anything, Mom? He hugged her, full of performative grief. We didn’t want to upset you. Things aren’t going well with her health.
It tore me apart to lie to my own child. But one careless word could ruin everything. Later that evening, after our daughter left to visit a friend, he returned to his plan.
You saw how upset she was, he said gently. The notary will come tomorrow morning. Let’s sign everything so she knows her future is secure, no matter what happens.
He was pushing the right button, my maternal love. All right, I replied softly. Let him come.
The next morning, the notary arrived. A dry, pedantic man who avoided I contact and addressed most of his words to the one eager to inherit. He bustled around, brought me water, fluffed the pillows.
The will was brief and clear. All my property, including the apartment and my share in the bookstore, would go to my husband upon my death. I read the document slowly.
He watched me closely. I took the pen, my hand trembling. I looked at the notary with a pure, innocent gaze.
Is this final? I asked, my voice weak and quiet. No one can contest it later, not even the daughter or any other family member? Correct, the notary confirmed. Your will, expressed in front of a witness and certified by me, holds the highest legal power.
All right, I whispered and slowly signed my name in shaky handwriting. He barely concealed his exhale. The performance was a success.
After the will was signed, he relaxed. He stopped pretending. He still brought me pills, but the fake tenderness was gone, replaced by barely disguised impatience.
And that overconfidence was where he slipped up. A couple of days later, he was on the phone in the living room, thinking I was asleep from another dose. But I wasn’t.
I lay in bed, and beneath the tissue on my nightstand was my phone recording everything. I had deliberately left the door ajar. Yes, everything went smoothly.
I heard his cheerful voice. She signed without a word. Now it’s just a matter of time.
A satisfied chuckle came from the other end. I never doubted you, said the accomplice. Just keep giving her the pills.
They’re working perfectly on her cognitive function. She’s like a child now, obedient and clueless. She can barely walk, he snorted.
I doubt she’ll last more than three weeks. My fists clenched. I was listening to the man I had shared a bed with for 30 years talk about my death like it was a minor delay in his path to wealth.
But what I heard next froze my blood. We don’t need to wait for her to die on her own, the doctor said coldly. That could drag on.
What if the daughter takes her to a different doctor or starts asking questions? It’s too risky. Now that the will is signed, it’s time to act. There was silence.
What are you suggesting? Ask the other, tension in his voice. I have just the thing, replied the doctor. A new drug.
I’ll bring it to you in a couple of days. One ampoule in her evening tea, and that’s it. Her heart will simply stop during sleep, quietly, peacefully, naturally.
No autopsy will show anything. We’ll just record acute heart failure due to the underlying disease. No one will suspect a thing.
Are you sure it’s safe? In his voice, there was no fear for me, only fear for himself. Absolutely, the killer doctor replied confidently. It will look like a sad but inevitable outcome of her illness.
We’ve prepared everything. Everyone will pity the poor widow. Just make sure to follow the instructions exactly.
They talked a bit more about the details. Then he said goodbye and hung up. I lay still, holding my breath, afraid to give myself away.
So this was their plan from the start, not just to deceive, not just to steal, but to kill. Cold and calculated. My loving husband planned to poison my tea and watch me die.