I always blamed the dizziness after dinner on “low blood sugar.” I’d laugh it off, sip water, and let Mark tuck me into bed like I was being cared for, not managed. But the pattern got too clean: fine all day, spinning room after we ate, heavy eyelids, then darkness.
Last night, I finally tested the one thing I didn’t want to suspect—his cooking.
Mark made lemon chicken and mashed potatoes, humming like it was a cozy Tuesday. I watched his hands, the way he salted, the way he stirred. Nothing obvious. Still, my heart pounded so hard I could taste metal. When he turned his back to grab plates, I slid my portion into a zip bag, tucked it under the sink behind the cleaning supplies, and replaced it with a few bites I forced down for show.
Then I did the hardest part: I let myself fall.
I crumpled near the hallway like my legs had simply quit. I slowed my breathing, kept my eyes half-lidded, and waited for his footsteps. Mark knelt beside me, cool fingers on my neck.
“Babe?” he murmured, a little too calm. “Sarah, can you hear me?”
I stayed limp.
His phone buzzed. He stood, walked into the kitchen, and lowered his voice—still close enough that every word scraped across my skin.
“Yeah… she’s out,” he said.
A pause.
“Did you increase the dose?”
My stomach dropped so fast I thought I’d actually faint for real.
He listened, then exhaled like someone discussing a delayed flight. “Good. I can’t keep waiting. By tomorrow, it’ll look natural.”
Another pause, then his tone sharpened. “No, don’t call me at this number again. And stop saying her name. If anyone asks, she’s been ‘not feeling well’ for weeks.”
My throat tightened. He wasn’t panicking. He was coordinating.
Mark walked back toward me, the kitchen light casting his shadow over my face. He crouched again, and this time he smiled—soft, almost affectionate.
“You’re okay,” he whispered, like he was comforting me.
Then he slid his hand into my hair, and I felt something cold brush the back of my neck—plastic, maybe a syringe cap—before he pulled it away.
“I just need you to stay asleep,” he said.
And I realized he didn’t plan on waiting for dinner anymore.
I wanted to bolt, but panic makes you loud. Loud gets you caught. So I stayed still and listened to the smallest sounds: the click of a drawer, the faint rattle of a medicine bottle, Mark’s measured breathing like he was counting steps in a recipe.
He returned to the kitchen. I heard the faucet run. A spoon clinked. Then the soft, deliberate snap of a lid.
My mind raced through every moment I’d ignored: Mark insisting on making my plate. Mark saying, “You don’t need to stress, I’ve got you.” Mark asking if I’d updated my life insurance beneficiary “for paperwork.”
He came back holding a glass of water and knelt beside me again. “Sarah,” he said, louder now, as if rehearsing for an audience. “Come on, wake up.”
I kept my face slack. My eyelashes barely fluttered, just enough to sell the performance.
“Okay,” he sighed, “okay… I’m calling 911.”
But he didn’t.
Instead, he lifted my hand and let it drop like a prop. Then he spoke into his phone again, quieter, closer.
“She didn’t wake up. I’m going to do it now,” he said. “If anything goes wrong, you’re handling the paperwork.”
A pause.
“Yeah. The account will be clear by Friday. Your cut is your cut.”
My lungs burned. Account. Cut. This wasn’t just fear—it was business.
When he stepped away to grab something from the bathroom, I slid my fingers under the sink and found the baggie of chicken. My hands shook so badly the plastic crackled. I shoved it into my robe pocket and inched my body toward the living room, staying low, using furniture like cover.
I made it to the side table where my purse sat—my phone inside. My screen lit up as I pulled it free. No service in the house sometimes, but Wi-Fi worked. My thumb hovered over “Call.”
A floorboard creaked behind me.
Mark stood in the doorway, holding a small amber bottle and a syringe like he’d stopped pretending it was medicine. His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“Wow,” he said softly. “You’re tougher than I thought.”
My voice came out thin. “Mark… what is that?”
He tilted his head, almost amused. “Something to help you rest. You’ve been so tired lately, remember?”
I backed up until my knees hit the couch. My phone slipped from my sweaty grip and clattered onto the rug. Mark’s gaze flicked down, then back up to me, and his jaw tightened.
“You weren’t supposed to hear any of that,” he said.
Then his phone buzzed again. He glanced at the screen and muttered, “Not now.”
I lunged for my phone. He lunged for me.
And the only thing faster than both of us was the truth finally cornering me in my own home.
I grabbed the phone first—but Mark’s hand closed around my wrist like a vise. Pain shot up my arm. He yanked me toward him, the syringe still in his other hand, and for a split second I saw something I’d never seen on his face before: irritation, not love. Like I was a problem that refused to solve itself.
“Let go,” I hissed, trying to twist free.
“Stop.” His voice was low and controlled. “You’re making this harder than it has to be.”
That sentence hit me harder than the grip. Harder than the syringe. Because it wasn’t, “I’d never hurt you.” It was, “Don’t complicate my plan.”
My eyes darted to the front door—too far. Kitchen—closer. And on the counter, a block of knives I’d washed that morning.
I did the only thing I could think of: I went limp again.
Mark’s grip loosened, just a fraction, because he expected my body to quit. In that tiny opening, I drove my elbow into his ribs with everything I had. He let out a sharp breath, stumbling back. The syringe clattered to the floor and rolled under the coffee table.
I didn’t run outside. I ran to the kitchen.
I snatched the biggest knife I could grab, not to be a hero, not to fight—just to make him hesitate. My hands were shaking so badly the blade wobbled in the air.
“Back up!” I yelled, louder than I meant to.
Mark froze. His eyes flicked from the knife to my phone, which I’d recovered and now held up like a lifeline. My thumb hovered over the emergency call button.
His face shifted—fast—from anger to concern, like a mask snapping into place.
“Sarah,” he said, palms open, “you’re confused. You fell. You’re scared. Put that down before you hurt yourself.”
I laughed—one short, broken sound. “Confused? I heard you. ‘Increase the dose.’ ‘It’ll look natural.’ Who were you talking to?”
His jaw tightened again. For the first time, he didn’t have a script.
Then his eyes slid to my robe pocket, where the baggie of chicken made a visible lump. I watched him calculate. If I left this house with that food and those words, he couldn’t charm his way out.
“You’re being dramatic,” he finally said, voice colder. “You don’t understand what you heard.”
I tapped the screen. The call connected. “911,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “My husband poisoned me. He has a syringe. Please send officers—now.”
Mark didn’t charge. He didn’t shout. He just stared, like someone watching a deal fall apart.
And right before I heard the dispatcher’s calm voice, Mark whispered something that still chills me:
“You think you’re the only one I planned this for?”
Now I have questions I can’t answer yet—about the call, about the other person, about how long this has been going on.
If you were me, what would you do next: go straight to the hospital for a full toxicology screen, or focus on finding out who he was working with first? Drop your thoughts—because I’m telling you, one choice could save you… and the other could expose the whole truth.
