Five years ago, my husband Mark died from what the county coroner ruled a fatal domestic accident—a slip down our basement stairs.
The basement air grew colder, heavy with a new kind of dread. Arthur was coming.
My flashlight beam was a weak, trembling finger in the pitch black. I couldn’t stay.
I had to get upstairs, get to Leo. But that meant confronting Arthur.
I decided to try the back stairs, the ones that led up into the kitchen utility room, hoping to catch him off guard. Every creak of the old wooden steps echoed like a gunshot in the oppressive silence.
I moved slowly, deliberately, my heart hammering against my ribs. One step. Another.
As I neared the top, a faint, rhythmic *ping-ping* sound reached me. It was metallic, high-pitched.
A satellite phone. Arthur.
He was in the kitchen.
I paused, pressing my ear against the thin door. His voice was a low murmur, calm, devoid of any stress, as if he were discussing the weather.
“…Yes, it’s handled. Complete blackout. No witnesses.”
My blood ran cold. He was reporting to someone. Apex Energy.
“…No, it won’t look like that. She’s been struggling, you know. Grief. The anniversary of his… accident.”
He paused, listening to the other end.
“…Yes. The old prescription bottles. He kept so many. A few vials are still viable.”
My breath hitched. Prescription bottles. Mark’s.
After Mark’s death, the doctor had given me a few bottles of strong sedatives, just to help me sleep, to get through the initial shock. I’d never used them, just tucked them away in the back of the medicine cabinet in the kitchen, forgotten.
Until now.
I pressed closer to the door, a sudden nausea rising in my throat.
Arthur’s voice continued, chillingly precise. “…A small injection. Nothing too obvious. She’ll appear to have succumbed to her despair. No struggle, no signs of forced entry. Just a tragic, lonely end.”
My blood ran cold. This wasn’t just a simple murder. This was an execution, meticulously planned to look like a suicide.
A grief-driven overdose. The police wouldn’t even investigate. Detective Garrick would sign off on it without a second thought.
Arthur wasn’t just removing a loose end. He was eliminating any trace of his involvement, and by extension, Apex Energy’s.
He was staging my death. Turning my five years of grief into his perfect alibi.
I heard the distinct *click* of the medicine cabinet door opening in the kitchen. Then the rattling of glass bottles.
He was preparing the syringe. He was going to inject me.
My heart pounded so hard I felt dizzy. I had to get to Leo. I had to stop him.
A wave of pure adrenaline surged through me. My hand still held the micro-drive, the proof of his original crime.
But that proof wouldn’t matter if I was dead, found slumped over with a needle mark in my arm.
This wasn’t just about survival anymore. It was about dignity. About the truth of Mark’s death.
I clenched my jaw, pushing down the rising panic. I had to fight.
I heard Arthur’s footsteps shift in the kitchen. He was moving, likely toward the utility room, toward the basement door.
Toward me.
I gripped the micro-drive tighter. The cold, hard plastic dug into my palm.
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