“What did you just put in there?”
He turned sharply.
“Nothing unusual. Just flavoring.”
“Then may I see the bottle?”
His expression tightened.
“Margaret, you’re worrying over nothing.”
He handed me the cup.
“Please, sweetheart. It’s getting cold.”
I wanted to question him further.
But his familiar, reassuring smile made me doubt myself.
I accepted the drink.
The following morning, I felt unusually sluggish.
Daniel was sitting beside me when I woke.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Not very well.”
He closed his eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?”
He hesitated.
“That you’re having such a difficult morning.”
Something about his answer troubled me.
Over the following days, I began paying closer attention to Daniel’s behavior.
He always prepared my evening drink himself.
He never tasted it.
And whenever I suggested skipping it, he became strangely insistent.
One evening, I mentioned visiting Helen for a few days.
“Not right now,” he answered immediately.
I stared at him.
