I put the posters back exactly as I had found them. I smoothed the tarp. Then I stepped inside the house as quietly as a shadow. I passed the dining room and saw the dishes arranged in neat rows. On the counter, a small porcelain container held a warm sauce, separated from the larger serving trays. A label was attached to the lid.
“Celia’s Portion.”
A chill ran through me. I did not pour it down the sink. I did not shout for help.
I simply switched the labels. I placed the word “Celia” onto the container meant for my husband. I placed the word “Brandt” onto mine. The handwriting was identical because the labels were printed from the same machine. No one would notice.
The scent of the sauce rose gently into the air. Dark. Sweet. Fragrant. If this was meant to end my life, then it would end his instead.
After that, I climbed to the attic, the quiet room above the garden, and waited.
The moment arrives faster than I expect. The garden is golden with lantern light. Strings of soft music rise through the air. Guests laugh and move in small clusters while Brandt plays the gracious host. He shines beneath the glow of admiration. Every gesture is calculated. Every smile is rehearsed.