Chapter 2 - THE PERFECT GASLIGHT
Headline: Clinging to a flash drive with proof her husband was slowly poisoning her, she had to walk out of the grocery store, get into his car, and pretend to be the clueless wife for just a little longer.
"I've got it on this drive," Frank whispered, pressing a small black USB stick into my palm. His hand was warm, his eyes pleading. "Please, be careful, Claire. If he’s giving you something... don't drink anything he prepares. Not a single drop."
"I won't. Thank you, Frank. You saved my life."
I slipped the flash drive deep into the zip pocket of my coat. I took a deep, shuddering breath, smoothed down my hair, and picked up the fallen grocery bags. I put the escaped apple back inside.
I walked out of the employee-only door and stepped back into the bright, buzzing reality of Riverside Market. The contrast was sickening. People were laughing in the checkout lines. Kids were begging for candy. And there, standing near the sliding glass exit doors, was Eric.
He was looking at his phone, his face relaxed, looking every bit the handsome, dedicated husband of nineteen years.
When he saw me approaching, his face lit up with that easy, familiar smile—the one I now realized was a weapon of psychological warfare.
"There you are!" he said, stepping forward to take the heavy grocery bags from my hands. "I'm so sorry, sweetie. The Whitmore call took longer than I thought. Those guys are absolute sharks. Are you okay? You look a little pale."
His hand brushed against mine as he took the bags. My skin crawled. I felt an overwhelming urge to scream, to scratch his eyes out, to run screaming into the parking lot. But I forced my face into a tired, slightly confused smile.
"I'm fine," I said, my voice barely trembling. "Just... a little dizzy again. It hit me while I was waiting."
Eric’s eyes flared with a brief, terrifying flash of satisfaction before settling back into a mask of deep concern. He put his arm around my shoulder, pulling me close. I could smell his cologne—the woody, clean scent I used to love. Now, it smelled like arsenic.
"Oh, honey," he cooed, kissing my temple. "The dizziness is getting worse, isn't it? We really need to get you back to Dr. Vance. I'm starting to get really worried about your cognitive decline."
Dr. Vance.
My mind raced as we walked out to his navy-blue Highlander. Dr. Evelyn Vance was my psychiatrist. I had started seeing her three years ago after my mother passed away from a long, grueling battle with cancer. Eric had personally recommended her. He had found her clinic.
Lydia.
The woman in the corridor. Eric had called her Lydia.
As Eric unlocked the car and loaded the groceries into the trunk, I climbed into the passenger seat. My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I stared at the glove compartment.
If they are trying to declare me mentally unfit, I thought, they need a paper trail. They need a medical diagnosis.
Eric got into the driver’s seat, starting the engine. He reached over, taking my hand and squeezing it tightly. "Let's get you home, Claire. I'll make you some of that herbal tea you like, and you can take a nice, long nap."
"That sounds wonderful, Eric," I said, looking him dead in the eyes, offering him the most convincing smile of my life.
We drove home in a silence that felt heavy and suffocating. Our house was a beautiful, historic colonial in the suburbs—a house my father had bought for us as a wedding present. It was part of my family's estate. My father had been a successful real estate developer, and when he died five years ago, he left everything in a sole-beneficiary trust fund.
A trust fund that was scheduled to release its principal balance of eight million dollars to me next month. On my forty-fifth birthday.
It all made sense now. The timing. The sudden onset of my "dementia."
When we got home, Eric insisted on carrying the groceries in. "Go sit down in the living room, Claire. I'll bring you your tea in a minute."
"Actually, Eric," I said, leaning against the kitchen counter, pretending to be weak. "My head is really pounding. I think I'll just go lie down in the guest bedroom. It's darker in there."
"Of course, sweetheart. Do you want me to bring the tea up?"
"No, I think I just need pure silence and sleep. Don't disturb me for a couple of hours, okay?"
"Anything you need, my love," he said softly.
May you like
I walked upstairs, my legs feeling like lead. But the moment I closed the guest bedroom door and locked it quietly, the weakness vanished.
I had to find out who Lydia was. And I had to find out what was in that cream-colored folder.
