The hardest part was facing Ethan.
He visited and talked about business ideas, completely unaware—or so I thought—that the man who raised him was being slowly killed. I studied his face, searching for myself, and saw only Daniel’s brow, Daniel’s arrogance.
On the seventh day, I knew I had to force their hand.
The lemon tree was dead. Margaret would notice soon. She might change methods.
So I gave her what she wanted.
I died.
It happened on a rainy Tuesday afternoon. Margaret and I were in the grand living room. She sat by the fireplace with a novel. I sat in my leather armchair, pretending to sip the poisoned smoothie.
I let the glass slip from my hand.
It shattered on the rug, green liquid splashing across the Persian pattern.
I gasped, clutched my chest, and fell forward hard, making sure my shoulder took the impact. Then I went limp.
Margaret did not scream.
She did not panic.
I heard her close her book.
Slow footsteps approached.
“Charles?” she asked calmly.
I focused on a loose red thread in the rug and slowed my breathing until it was almost invisible.
She nudged my ribs with her shoe.
“Wake up, old man,” she whispered.
I did not move.
Then I felt something cold beneath my nose. Her makeup mirror. She was checking for breath.
I held still until my lungs burned.
