“Please, don’t argue with me tonight,” he said. “Just trust me.”
“Then tell me what’s in it.”
He remained silent for a moment.
“What your body needs.”
After that answer, I could no longer sleep peacefully.
Daniel’s behavior had changed in other ways as well. He made secret phone calls, frequently went into the garage, and
locked the door behind him. I found a receipt from a medical center in his jacket pocket, and his internet search history was
always deleted.
One night, I woke up and saw him standing beside our bed. He was watching to see whether I was breathing.
“What are you doing?” I asked, frightened.
“Nothing. Go back to sleep.”
By the following morning, I had made my decision.
That evening, when Daniel left the kitchen for a few minutes, I poured some of the soup into a small glass jar and hid it in my
purse. The next day, I took it to a private laboratory. I told an employee that I suspected a foreign substance had been added
to my food. She studied my face for several seconds.
“Do you believe someone may be poisoning you?”
I couldn’t bring myself to answer aloud. I simply nodded. They promised to send me the results in three days.
Those were the longest three days of my life. Every evening at exactly 7:14, Daniel closed the curtains again, brought me the
soup, and sat beside me. I ate while imagining the worst.
