“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.
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.
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.
