“It’s done,” he said. “They ate it. They’ll both be gone soon.” A woman’s voice crackled through the speaker, thin with excitement. “Are you sure?” “Yeah,” he replied. “It’ll look accidental.”
I froze. Ethan exhaled like years left his lungs. Footsteps. A closet drawer sliding. Something metallic clinked. He returned to the living room, duffel bag brushing the floor. “Goodbye,” he murmured.
Cold air rushed as the door opened, then shut. Silence. My heart hammered. I whispered to Caleb, “Don’t move yet…” Then I felt his fingers twitch. Relief hit like lightning. He was awake.
His fingers squeezed mine faintly. “Quiet,” I breathed. Pretend. Shallow breathing. Whatever Ethan had dosed hadn’t fully knocked him out. Perhaps he spilled most of his juice. Perhaps luck chose us.
I waited. No footsteps, no sounds. I forced my eyelids open just enough to see the microwave clock. 8:42 p.m. Arms felt like sandbags, but they obeyed. I crawled toward the hallway.
Phone in hand, I dialed 911. First attempts failed. Finally, a dispatcher answered. “My husband poisoned us,” I whispered. “He left. My son is alive. We need help—now.” Orders came fast.
Dispatcher: “Stay on the line. Can you access fresh air?” Caleb’s pupils were wide, skin clammy. “Can you walk?” I whispered. He tried, knees wobbling. “Bathroom,” I said. “Lock it. Sip water slowly.”
Buzz—unknown number. CHECK THE TRASH. PROOF. HE’S COMING BACK. My stomach clenched. I found an old activated charcoal bottle. Sirens wailed faintly in the distance, growing. The front door handle turned.
Ethan was back. Two sets of footsteps crossed the living room. Dispatcher: “Officers are arriving. Stay put.” I pressed my hand over Caleb’s mouth. Quiet. Still. Footsteps paused outside. “You said they were out.”
“They are,” Ethan whispered. My blood ran cold. He brought a stranger, maybe to help stage the scene. Outside the bathroom door, they discussed our deaths casually. Caleb’s tears filled his eyes. Not yet.
Then sharp knocks at the front door. “POLICE! OPEN UP!” Everything snapped into motion. Ethan cursed under his breath. Dispatcher: “They’re there. Stay put.” My legs shook, but we stayed still.
Officers entered. “Step away from the hallway. Hands visible.” Ethan tried smooth talk. Another officer interrupted: “We have a 911 call from your wife. She’s alive.” Silence. Fear turned to action.
I unlocked the bathroom, stepped out with Caleb tucked behind me. Uniforms swarmed. Paramedics checked him. Relief settled as I watched them work. Time, for once, was ours. Ethan’s act crumbled.
Detectives found the trash, evidence meticulously hidden: pesticide labels, phone records, texts to Tessa Rowe, his ex. The stranger? A buddy who agreed to “help.” Unknown texter? A vigilant neighbor who warned us.
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