Chapter 2 - THE ART OF THE STAGED COLLAPSEThat evening, when Mark walked into the bedroom with his usual practiced expression of weary devotion, I was ready.
He handed me a small paper cup containing my nightly "sedative"—a heavy dose of anti-psychotics designed to keep my mind foggy and compliant.
"Here you go, Evelyn," Mark said gently, stroking my hair. "Just swallow this. You'll sleep better."
I looked into his eyes—eyes that had watched me sob over an empty blanket while knowing our daughter was alive in someone else's nursery.
I smiled, took the cup, and pressed it to my lips. The moment he turned around to hang his jacket, I tipped the pills into the palm of my hand and slid them into my robe pocket.
"Thank you, Mark," I whispered, pitching my voice to sound weak and trembling. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
May you like
Mark smiled, completely satisfied with his handiwork. "You'd be lost, sweetheart. Just rest. Everything is handled."
As soon as his breathing slowed down in the dark, I slipped out of bed, packed my encrypted hard drives, and walked out the back door into the cool night air.
