Chapter 2

If Henry started to suspect anything, I'd be the one who ended up dead.

I closed my eyes, and the icy chill in my blood faded, replaced by a scorching, molten heat. It burned through my guts, but my mind was clearer than ever.

The rules had changed. From this moment on, I'd not be the hunted. I'd be the hunter.

*****

The next morning, I looked much more energetic.

I sat up and asked for a bowl of oatmeal. When Henry walked in holding it, surprise flickered in his eyes, quickly drowned out by obvious delight. "Honey, are you feeling better?"

"Yeah, I don't feel as tired," I said, giving him a weak but real smile. I reached out for the bowl, purposely letting my fingertips linger on the back of his hand for a moment. He froze.

I sipped the oatmeal slowly, the warmth of the oats sliding down my throat, offering a fake sense of comfort. I looked at him.

He was sitting at the edge of the bed, eyes locked on me, filled with relief and deep affection, like he'd just gotten me back from the brink.

If I hadn't seen what happened on the security footage, I might've let myself fall for it all over again.

"Honey," I said softly, setting the bowl down, "I dreamed about my parents last night.

"It got me thinking, if something happens to me, you know, just in case, we should sort out what happens with the family assets. I want to talk to a lawyer and draw up a will."

The air froze instantly.

Henry's gentle expression cracked for a split second, like fine porcelain struck by an invisible hammer.

The crack vanished in an instant, and he took my hand again, his voice trembling with emotion. "Don't talk like that! You're going to get better. Never say things like that."

But I could feel the cold, clammy sweat on his palm. He was scared. He was worried I might leave my assets to my parents, afraid that the seven million insurance payout would slip out of his control because of a will.

Sure enough, after that day, the milk Henry brought me tasted even richer, but the bitterness underneath was stronger. He tried to cover it up with extra sugar and creamer. I could tell he'd upped the dose. He was getting desperate.

Every day, I'd keep the milk in my mouth, and as soon as he went into the bathroom, I'd spit all of it into the lush pothos plant by my bed. Then, I kicked off my Plan B.

While Henry was at the hospital, I used a syringe to carefully inject a bit of distilled water into every unopened milk carton, right through the seal, then patched them up with medical glue. The real poisoned milk was stashed somewhere safe.

Then I dialed a number. The voice that answered was gravelly and disguised, barely recognizable.

I said on the phone, "I need you to look into someone for me. His name is Henry Carter, a surgeon at Lunaris Hospital. I want to know who he's been in contact with besides me. Especially any woman he calls 'sweetheart' or anything like that."

I wrapped up a stack of cash in a brown paper bag and stashed it under the designated bench in the park.

*****

Three days later, I got a new email in my encrypted inbox. It contained no text, just a single photo.

I clicked on it, and it felt like an invisible hand had grabbed my heart and squeezed it tight. The photo was taken on a sunny day outside a high-end maternity and baby care center.

The two people in the picture were all too familiar to me.

In it, my best friend, Olivia Lane, was holding an adorable little boy in her arms with a big smile.

The boy looked about two years old, and every feature, from his eyes and nose to the way his lips curved into a smile, made him a mini Henry.

My phone slipped from my trembling hand and hit the floor with a dull thud. My stomach twisted in knots. I rushed into the bathroom and leaned over the cold toilet. Nothing came up. Only the bitter, sour burn of bile seared my throat.

So it was her. Even my only friend had been part of this murder conspiracy.