My first instinct was to run. My mind screamed for me to leave through the garage door and disappear into the city. But then I imagined Brandt filing missing person reports. I imagined him tracking my devices, freezing my accounts, calling the police, using his connections. He would hunt me the way hunters follow wounded prey. He knew everything about me. My passwords, my schedules, my habits. Running would only buy time, not freedom.
I wiped my tears. Something inside me hardened like stone. If I escaped tonight, another attempt would come. Another carefully timed “accident”. Another fabricated medical report. Another smiling speech. He would not stop until he succeeded. The world would see him as a grieving husband regardless.
“No,” I whispered. “Not again. Not ever.”
I put the posters back exactly as I had found them. I smoothed the tarp. Then I stepped inside the house as quietly as a shadow. I passed the dining room and saw the dishes arranged in neat rows. On the counter, a small porcelain container held a warm sauce, separated from the larger serving trays. A label was attached to the lid.
“Celia’s Portion.”
A chill ran through me. I did not pour it down the sink. I did not shout for help.
I simply switched the labels. I placed the word “Celia” onto the container meant for my husband. I placed the word “Brandt” onto mine. The handwriting was identical because the labels were printed from the same machine. No one would notice.
The scent of the sauce rose gently into the air. Dark. Sweet. Fragrant. If this was meant to end my life, then it would end his instead.
After that, I climbed to the attic, the quiet room above the garden, and waited.
The moment arrives faster than I expect. The garden is golden with lantern light. Strings of soft music rise through the air. Guests laugh and move in small clusters while Brandt plays the gracious host. He shines beneath the glow of admiration. Every gesture is calculated. Every smile is rehearsed.
I move through the crowd with a glass in hand. The microphone waits on its stand near the center of the patio. Only I know what sits inside it. A tiny recorder. Already active. Already carrying the weight of his own words. Hours of them. His meetings. His threats. His plan for my final night. He believed I would be gone before anyone ever heard them.