“Be quiet.”
His palm slammed against the wood, a dull, heavy thud that made Noah flinch. “Rachel, open this door. You’re making yourself sicker. Let me help you.”
The sickening irony of his words made my stomach heave, a brutal reminder of the chemical burning its way through my system. He had sat across from us at the dining table just an hour ago, watching us eat the chicken in green sauce, smiling as he spooned more onto our plates. It was only when I went to the kitchen for water and caught his muted conversation on the deck—“It’s done… soon you’ll both be gone”—that the sudden, violent cramps in my abdomen and Noah’s sudden vomiting made horrifying sense.
I had grabbed Noah, locked us in the master bathroom, and dialed 911.
“Ma’am, I need you to stay completely silent,” the operator’s voice buzzed like an insect against my ear. “Officers are turning onto your street now. They have sirens off.”
Outside the door, the woman’s heels clicked impatiently. “Daniel, look at the counter. Her phone isn’t in the kitchen. She has it with her. What if she called someone?”
A heavy silence fell over the hallway. The handle stopped rattling.
Then came the weight of his shoulder throwing itself against the solid oak door. The frame groaned. Noah let out a tiny, stifled whimper, and I threw my body over his, covering his mouth with my hand, ready to use myself as a shield.
Thud.
“Rachel!” Daniel’s voice dropped all pretense, turning sharp and manic. “You think you’re smart? You think you’re going to ruin this for me? Everything is in my name. The insurance, the house, the accounts. You were supposed to just go to sleep!”
Thud. The wood near the deadbolt began to splinter.
“Daniel, stop! Let’s just take the bags and leave!” the woman screamed. I recognized her voice now. It was Vanessa, his firm’s junior accountant. The one he claimed was “like a niece” to him.
“We can’t leave them alive, you idiot!” Daniel roared back, his composure completely shattering. “If they survive, the toxicology report ruins everything! Hold this!”
