“Finish her off, Doc. Make it look like heart failure. I have a dinner reservation with Donna, and I don’t intend to be late.”
“I need ten minutes to prepare the syringe,” the doctor whispered.
Footsteps. The door clicked shut.
I was alone with my husband.
He walked to the side of the bed. I felt his hand brush a stray hair from my forehead.
“You always were difficult, Eliza,” he whispered, his breath hot against my ear. “You should have just died on the floor. You would have saved us both the trouble.”
He chuckled darkly.
“But don’t worry. Donna is already pregnant. She’ll make a much better Mrs. Caldwell.”
He patted my cheek, sharp and stinging.
“Goodbye, Eliza.”
He turned and walked out the door, whistling a tune.
Panic, raw and primal, flooded my veins. I had ten minutes. Ten minutes before the doctor came back with a syringe full of death.
I had to move. I had to wake up.
Move, I screamed at my fingers. Move, damn you!
I focused every ounce of my will, every shred of hatred and grief, into my right hand.
Twitch.
My index finger moved. Just a fraction.
Then my eyelids fluttered. The harsh hospital light pierced my retinas, blinding and painful.