My Cult-Leader Husband Stole My Credentials And Claimed I Was Hysterical Until An Old Letter Exposed What He Did To His First Assistant
I stared at Lucas’s letter, the damning words burning themselves into my memory. My husband was a murderer, not just of Lucas, but of anyone who drank from that spring. I had to expose him.
I decided to confront David directly, but subtly. I would leave the letter hidden for now, observe his reaction, push him to reveal himself.
But David was already ahead.
I woke in the middle of the night, a jolt of unease propelling me from sleep. The room felt… different. I sat up, peering into the dim moonlight filtering through the window.
The heavy oak wardrobe, which had stood squarely against the east wall for years, was now pushed against the south wall, blocking half the window. The small prayer rug, usually by the bedside, was rolled up and tucked beneath a chair.
A chill ran down my spine. It was a subtle shift, barely noticeable, but profound. No one entered our private quarters without permission.
My heart pounded. I tried the keypad lock on my office door, the door to *my* personal space within our shared quarters. The usual code, etched into my memory for years, failed. Then it failed again.
Panic flared. David. He was doing it again. Making me question my own reality, my own memory.
At morning meal, I confronted him, my voice tight despite my efforts to appear calm. “David, did you rearrange our room last night? My office door code is different.”
He looked at me with an expression of gentle concern, then sighed, shaking his head. “Miriam, my dear, no. I was asleep. And your office code hasn’t changed since 2021. You know that.”
He looked towards Elder Finch, who was sipping his tea nearby. “Miriam has been… feeling quite disoriented lately. The dreams, the tremors.”
Elder Finch’s eyes were already on me, filled with a deep, unsettling pity. He saw a woman losing her grip, just as David had suggested.
“Sister Miriam,” Elder Finch said, his voice soft but firm. “Perhaps you should rest. David has prepared some sedative powders for you. They will help calm your spirit and clear your mind.”
He nodded to David, who stood ready, a small, white envelope in his hand. The same gentle, caring husband, offering comfort. Offering poison.
My throat tightened. They were closing in. The room spun slightly, whether from the antimony or the sheer terror, I couldn’t tell. I had to play along, but my resolve hardened. I would not rest. I would not take his sedatives. I would find proof.
More Stories
+ There are no comments
Add yours