By the fourth day, the leaves curled.
By the sixth, they were yellow and dying.
The poison was strong enough to kill a six-foot tree.
Margaret watched my fake decline with quiet satisfaction. She began measuring the walls of my office, as if planning where her new art would go once my desk was removed. I overheard her asking the country club about transferring legacy memberships “in the event of a sudden passing.”
But while she planned my funeral, I planned her destruction.
Through burner phones and late-night meetings, Ms. Whitaker fortified my empire. The toxicologist confirmed lethal digoxin levels in the residue I smuggled out. I submitted my own DNA, a hair from my brush, and a sample from Pastor Daniel’s discarded coffee cup.
