I reached the garage and used my spare key to open his sedan. I found my phone quickly. I was about to leave when I noticed a stack of paper cartons tucked behind a tarp. They did not look like supplies for a party. Curiosity told me one thing. Logic told me to walk away. But instinct pulled me toward them.
I pulled the nearest carton toward me. It was surprisingly heavy. I lifted the lid. What I saw inside drained every ounce of warmth from my body.
There were printed memorial posters. Dozens upon dozens of them. All glossy. All identical.
My photograph had been placed prominently in the center. My name was written in bold black letters. Beneath it were the dates.
Celia Hartwell.
1986 to 2025.
Above my name were the words: A Life Remembered with Deep Gratitude.
A short line below stated: Date of Passing. January 14th.
That was tomorrow.
My breath stumbled. My hands shook so violently that the posters rattled as if caught in a breeze. I knelt and picked up a smaller envelope tucked between the stacks. Inside it lay a printed medical statement from a private clinic in Lakeshore District. At the bottom were the doctor’s signature and seal.
The cause of death was listed as cardiac arrest from foodborne toxins. The time of death noted on the page read 9:45 PM.
I glanced at the clock on my phone. It was just after four.
Pieces fell into place so sharply that I felt my stomach twist. I remembered the “special dish” Brandt had insisted on preparing himself. I remembered how he had told the head chef, “This part is only for my wife. No one else should touch it.” I remembered the way he had smiled at me last night. Something like triumph flickered in that smile. I had dismissed it as affection.
It was not affection.
Brandt was planning to kill me tonight, in front of all our friends, all our associates, all the witnesses who would believe it was tragic but accidental. He had prepared everything. A doctor ready to sign the report. A funeral program ready to print. A death he would mourn convincingly while collecting everything I had built.