inviting that friend to dinner, Victor changed the subject.
One night, I decided not to drink. When Victor briefly left the kitchen, I poured the contents of my glass into a flowerpot.
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By morning, the flower’s leaves had turned black.
My hands began trembling. I spent hours that day reading about slow-acting poisons. I began remembering how often I had
felt exhausted, dizzy, or unwell at night. Could the drink have caused all of it? But why would my husband want to harm me?
Victor had always been caring. Whenever I became ill, he sat beside me all night. When my father died, he didn’t let go of my
hand for weeks. He worked day and night so Emily and I would never lack anything.
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Yet every evening at nine o’clock, that gentle man disappeared. In his place sat someone who watched every sip I took with
