The next seven days became a private psychological war.
Every morning, Margaret brought the green smoothie to my office.
“Here you go, my love,” she would say. “Drink all of it. You need your strength.”
“Thank you, Maggie,” I would reply, forcing my hand not to shake.
I waited until her footsteps faded down the hall. The drink tasted bitter beneath the ginger. I couldn’t pour it down the sink; Margaret checked everything. She was careful.
So I poured it into the soil of the large Meyer lemon tree in the corner of my study. Every morning, I buried the poison beneath decorative moss, wiped the rim of the glass, and left a small amount at the bottom.
