I sat on the couch while she filled a glass of water. The camera in the living room caught everything: the way she glanced at me, measuring; the way she moved with purpose, not panic.
She returned with three pills in her palm.
“The usual vitamins,” she said sweetly.
I took them, lifted the glass, and pretended to swallow. I let the pills sit under my tongue, bitter and chalky, while I forced my face to stay neutral. When she looked away, I spit them into a tissue and folded it tight in my pocket like a secret.
After she left the room, I walked to the bathroom, locked the door, and pressed the tissue into a plastic bag taped behind the toilet tank—Detective Morrison’s instruction.
The police would collect it later.
Margaret’s tenderness increased over the next two days in a way that would have looked romantic to anyone who didn’t know the script. She made soup. She brought blankets. She called me “dear” more than she had in months. And she brought pills three times a day now instead of two.
Each time, I pretended to swallow. Each time, I felt sick from fear and the taste of poison I didn’t ingest.