Eleanor noticed my “decline” with sickening glee. She began making subtle adjustments to our life. I caught her measuring the wall space in my study, likely planning what art she would hang once my desk was gone. I heard her on the phone with the country club, asking about the transferability of legacy memberships “in the event of a sudden passing.”
But I was not idle. While she planned my funeral, I planned her ruin.
Through burner phones and late-night meetings in empty parking garages, Ms. Sterling moved my empire into an impenetrable fortress. The toxicologist confirmed the presence of lethal digoxin levels in the residue I smuggled out in a thermos. I secretly submitted my DNA and a hair sample from my hairbrush—and one from Reverend Marcus, lifted from a discarded coffee cup after his Wednesday visit—to a private lab.
The hardest part was playing the fool when my son, Preston, came to visit. He would sit across from me, talking about his new startup ideas, completely oblivious—or so I thought—to the impending execution of the man who raised him. I looked at his eyes, searching for my own reflection, and found nothing but Marcus Thorne’s arrogant brow.
On the seventh day, the pressure became unbearable. I was losing sleep, losing weight from paranoia over my food, and the lemon tree in the corner was completely dead. I knew she would notice the plant soon. I needed to force her hand before she changed her methodology.
I needed to give her exactly what she wanted. I needed to die.
It happened on a rainy Tuesday afternoon. Eleanor and I were in the grand living room. She was reading a novel by the fireplace; I was sitting in my leather armchair, supposedly sipping my spiked smoothie.
I let the glass slip from my fingers. It shattered on the Persian rug, splashing green liquid everywhere.
I gasped sharply, clutching my chest, and threw myself forward. I hit the floor hard, making sure my shoulder took the brunt of the impact. I let out a choked groan and let my limbs go entirely slack, staring blankly at the intricate patterns of the rug.
Eleanor did not scream. She did not drop her book in a panic.
I heard the soft rustle of pages closing. Slowly, her footsteps approached. She stood over me, her shadow falling across my face.
“Richard?” she asked, her tone conversational, as if asking if I wanted more tea.
I didn’t blink. I focused on a loose red thread in the carpet, employing a meditation technique I hadn’t used in decades to slow my breathing to an imperceptible rhythm.
She nudged my ribs with the hard toe of her designer flat. It hurt, but I remained dead weight.
“Wake up, old man,” she whispered. The venom in her voice was absolute.
When I didn’t move, she sighed. I heard the rustle of her purse. A moment later, I felt something cold and hard press just beneath my nostrils. She was using her silver makeup mirror to check for condensation from my breath. I held the air in my lungs until they burned, letting out only the faintest, shallowest wisps.
Apparently satisfied that I was in a catastrophic state, she knelt beside me. I felt her manicured nails scrape against my left hand. She grabbed my gold wedding band—the ring she had slid onto my finger forty years ago—and began twisting it violently.
“Better get this off now,” she muttered to herself, yanking the gold over my knuckle, tearing the skin. “Fingers always swell when the heart stops.”
She stood up and dialed her phone.
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