The doctor exchanged a glance with the nurse.
“What did he clean it with?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he apply anything to the wound?”
“He put something on it.”
“What?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You were conscious?”
“Yes.”
“Did he tell you what it was?”
“No.”
Dr. Mensah leaned closer.
“Reese, I need you to think carefully.”
I did.
And then I remembered.
The little brown bottle.
It had been sitting on the kitchen counter.
Tristan had told me it was antiseptic.
But the smell had been strange.
Sharp.
Almost sweet.
My eyes widened.
“He brought the bottle from his office.”
Dr. Mensah stopped.
“His office?”
“Yes.”
“What did it look like?”
“Small. Brown. White label.”
The doctor immediately stood.
“Don’t tell anyone else about this yet.”
“Why?”
“Because we need to preserve evidence.”
My hands began shaking.
“Doctor…”
She turned.
“Is my husband trying to kill me?”
There was a long silence.
Then she said something that changed everything.
“We don’t know yet.”
She paused.
“But we have reason to believe someone has been trying to keep you from receiving medical treatment.”
The door closed behind her.
And for the first time since I had married Tristan, I realized something terrifying.
Maybe the fever wasn’t the only thing trying to kill me.
Two hours later, a police detective entered my room.
Her name was Detective Elena Brooks.
She was in her forties, calm, professional, and carried a folder thick enough to make my stomach twist.
She pulled the chair beside my bed.
“Mrs. Carter?”
“Reese.”
“Reese.”
She opened the folder.
“I need to ask you some questions.”
“About my husband?”
“About everything.”
She placed several photographs on the table.
The first showed my ankle.
The second showed the chemical analysis.
The third showed the inside of my kitchen.
Then she placed down a photograph that made my blood run cold.
It was a small brown bottle.
The same bottle I remembered.
“Where did you see this?”
“In my kitchen.”
“When?”
“Three days ago.”
“Who put it there?”
“My husband.”
Detective Brooks nodded.
“Do you know what this is?”
“No.”
“It’s industrial-strength solvent.”
My mouth went dry.
“What does that mean?”
“It can cause severe tissue damage when applied to skin.”
I stared at the photograph.
“He told me it was antiseptic.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
She leaned back.
“Because your husband told us the same thing.”
My heart stopped.
“He’s here?”
“He arrived forty minutes ago.”
Fear exploded inside my chest.
“He knows I’m awake?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“Outside.”
The door suddenly seemed much thinner.
“He wants to see you.”
“No.”
Detective Brooks nodded.
“That was my recommendation too.”
I stared at her.
“Why did he come?”
“To give his statement.”
“What did he say?”
The detective opened her folder.
“He says you injured yourself three days ago.”
“That part is true.”
“He says you’ve been emotionally unstable for several months.”
My jaw tightened.
“He says you’ve become obsessed with the idea that he’s cheating on you.”
I laughed.
It came out weak and bitter.
“Of course.”
“He also claims you have a history of exaggerating medical symptoms.”
I looked at her.
“I’ve never been hospitalized in my life.”
“I know.”
She turned another page.
“He says tonight you became irrational, refused to rest, and threatened to destroy his career.”
I stared at the ceiling.
He had prepared this.
He wasn’t improvising.
He had already created a story in which I was unstable.
And if I had died at home, that story would have become the truth everyone remembered.
Detective Brooks watched me carefully.
“There’s more.”
“What?”
“Your husband called your primary physician two days ago.”
My blood turned cold.
“Why?”
“He asked about your medical history.”
“Can he do that?”
“Not without proper authorization.”
She placed another paper on the table.
“He tried to obtain your records.”
I stared at it.
“Why?”
“We don’t know yet.”
Then she said the words that made my entire body go numb.
“Because he also changed the emergency contact information on your medical file.”
I frowned.
“To whom?”
She looked at me.
“Himself.”
“But he was already my emergency contact.”
“Exactly.”
I couldn’t understand.
Then Detective Brooks added:
“He removed your sister.”
My heart sank.
“My sister?”
“Your sister, Natalie, was listed as your secondary emergency contact for the last six years.”
I stared at her.
“When did he change it?”
“Three months ago.”
Three months.
That was when everything had started becoming strange.
The arguments.
The unexplained injuries.
The sudden insistence that I stay home.
The constant questions about my health insurance.
I had thought Tristan was simply becoming controlling.
But perhaps there had been a reason.
The detective left after taking my statement.
I thought I would finally have some peace.
I was wrong.
At 3:17 a.m., my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Hello?”
A man’s voice whispered:
“Don’t trust your husband.”
My blood ran cold.
“Who is this?”
“You don’t know me.”
“Then why are you calling?”
“Because I know what happened to the first woman.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“What woman?”
Silence.
Then:
“Ask Tristan about Claire.”
The call ended.
I stared at the screen.
Claire.
I had never heard that name in my marriage.
At least, I didn’t think I had.
But something about it felt familiar.
Not because Tristan had mentioned her.
Because I had seen it somewhere.
I closed my eyes.
Think.
Think.
Then I remembered.
Six months earlier, while cleaning Tristan’s office, I had found a folder in the bottom drawer.
A woman’s name had been written across it.
Claire Morgan.
I had asked Tristan about it.
He had taken the folder from my hands.
“Old business.”
That was all he said.
I had never asked again.
Now I reached for my hospital phone.
“Detective Brooks?”
The nurse answered instead.
“She just stepped out.”
“Can you tell her something?”
“Of course.”
I swallowed.
“Tell her the name Claire Morgan.”
The nurse’s expression changed.
“You know that name?”
“No.”
I looked toward the door.
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