Chapter 1
In my social circle, I was the girl people envied for effortless good fortune.
I was born into privilege and married the right man. My husband, Henry Carter, was the youngest associate director of surgery at the city's top hospital. He was known as a genius with the scalpel.
He was cold and distant in public, but at home, he treated me with a tenderness that made me feel cherished.
Our home was a cozy two-story house with a yard, where afternoon sunlight poured through huge floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the floor with dappled shadows.
My life was as tranquil as a finely painted oil masterpiece, and I was the woman in it who lived the most effortless, sheltered existence.
The final touch to my perfect day was the cup of milk Henry brought to my bedside every night at ten o'clock.
"Honey, drink this and get some sleep. It'll keep you looking beautiful," Henry'd say. His fingertips were always warm, with that dry, steady touch only a surgeon could have. Every night, his fingertips would gently brush against my cheek.
I'd take the bone china mug from him, the warmth pressing softly into my palm. The milk was rich, with a subtle sweetness that was almost elusive. Under his indulgent gaze, I'd finish it sip by sip.
This was our sweetest ritual, the same every night for three years.
But lately, something felt off.
It started with constant drowsiness. Even after eight hours of sleep, I'd spend the day in a fog, like some invisible net was weighing me down. Just lifting my eyelids was exhausting.
Then my hair began to fall out. Seeing strands of hair on my pillow and clogging the bathroom drain was honestly terrifying. I held out the handful to Henry, not even realizing how scared I looked.
Henry gently wrapped his arms around me, speaking in that professional, soothing tone of his. "You've been stressed out by that project lately. Don't overthink it. It's just a hormonal thing. You'll get better soon."
He was a doctor, so I trusted him. He was my husband, and I loved him.
But one night, a wave of nausea churned in my stomach, and I could only drink half the milk before I couldn't swallow another drop. Henry didn't push me. He just sighed, took the cup, and said, "I'll pour it out."
He turned toward the kitchen, and our golden retriever, Rocky, followed at his heels, whining softly with longing. Rocky was a purebred, two-year-old, built like a tank. He could drag me half a block if he wanted to.
"He wants some," I said, my voice weak as I leaned against the headboard.
Henry paused for a moment, then smiled. "Let him have what's left. He'll enjoy the treat."
I watched as he poured the half-cup of milk into Rocky's bowl. Rocky's tail wagged excitedly, and he lapped it up in seconds.
That night, I slept so deeply it felt like I was drowning in an endless ocean.
The next morning, I was jolted awake by the eerie silence in the yard. Rocky never slept in. By now, he should've been scratching at the door downstairs, begging me to take him out for a walk. My heart gave a nervous lurch.
The thought of calling the police pierced my mind like a cold needle, but I yanked it out just as quickly.
No. I couldn't call the police.
I lay in bed, watching the ceiling's patterns twist into creepy faces in the dim light. What could the cops even do for me? A tampered IV bag? A gross kiss? I didn't even have a recording of that phone call.
Henry was a doctor. He could spin a hundred stories about colchicine being for some research. And I was just the crazy, unstable wife with too much imagination.
The cops would just give me that pitying look and suggest I see a shrink. Henry would put on an Oscar-worthy performance as the wronged, heartbroken husband.
He'd lock me up in a psych ward, and in there, he'd have a thousand ways to make me disappear for good, and no one would ever suspect a thing.