I stood.
“That’s me.”
“I’m Doctor Rachel Bennett.”
She extended her hand. Her grip was firm and professional.
“Come on back.”
I followed her down a narrow hallway and into a small exam room. She gestured to a chair, and I sat. She closed the door, sat across from me, and folded her hands on the desk.
“So,” she said gently, “the receptionist mentioned you’d like a toxicology screening on a beverage sample. Can you tell me a little more about that?”
I reached into my purse, pulled out the jar, and set it on the desk between us. The coffee inside had settled, leaving a thin film on the surface, dark and murky.
“I need to know if there’s anything in this,” I said. “Anything that shouldn’t be there. Poison. Drugs. Chemicals. Anything.”
Doctor Bennett picked up the jar and held it to the light, studying it.
“And where did this come from?”
I hesitated only a moment.
“My husband made it for me yesterday morning.”
Her eyes flicked to mine. A long, heavy pause settled between us.
“And you’re concerned because…”
“Because I’ve been sick,” I said, the words tumbling faster now. “For three months. Nausea. Vomiting. Exhaustion. Stomach cramps. My regular doctor ran tests and found nothing. But yesterday I didn’t drink the coffee my husband made me, and today I feel fine. No symptoms. Nothing.”
Doctor Bennett set the jar down carefully. Her face stayed calm, but I could see the concern sharpening in her eyes.
“Zoe, I have to ask. Do you feel safe at home?”
The question hung between us.
“Not anymore,” I admitted. “But I can’t do anything until I have proof. Legal proof. That’s why I’m here.”
She nodded slowly.
“Okay. I understand. We can run a comprehensive toxicology panel on this sample. We’ll screen for common poisons, prescription drugs, over-the-counter medications, and a wide range of chemical substances.”
“How long will it take?”
“Seventy-two hours. We’ll call you as soon as the results are in.”
“And it’ll hold up in court if I need it to?”
“If you’re planning to pursue legal action, yes. Our lab is CLIA-certified. The results are admissible.”
She paused.
“But Zoe, if you are in immediate danger—”
“I’m not,” I said too quickly. Then I corrected myself. “Not yet. He doesn’t know I know. And I need to keep it that way until I have everything I need to stop him.”
She studied me for a long moment.
“All right. The test will cost $127.50. We can bill your insurance if—”
“No.”
I opened my wallet and pulled out an old credit card. The one that had belonged to my mother before she died. The one I kept for emergencies.
“Don’t put it through insurance. I’ll pay with this.”
She didn’t ask why. She just processed the payment and handed me a receipt.
“We’ll call you Monday afternoon. And if you need anything before then—if you feel unsafe—call 911. Or call me.”
She handed me her business card. I slipped it into my purse beside the receipt.
“Thank you,” I said. And I meant it.
She walked me back to the waiting room, her hand resting lightly on my shoulder.
“Take care of yourself, Zoe.”
I went back to my car and sat behind the wheel for several minutes with my hands shaking. Seventy-two hours. Three days. By Monday, I would know for sure what Jake had been putting in my coffee. And once I had that proof, I could start planning my next move.
I started the car and pulled out of the lot, heading toward Rosa’s Kitchen. As I drove, I realized something that scared me almost as much as the poison.
I felt better.
Clearer. Sharper. My stomach wasn’t churning. My head wasn’t pounding. For the first time in months, I felt like myself again.
And that meant Jake had been winning.
He had been breaking me down piece by piece, and I hadn’t even seen it.
But I saw it now.
Seventy-two hours.
Just seventy-two more hours, and I would know exactly what I needed to do to stop him.
On Monday afternoon, February 19, I was in the kitchen at Rosa’s Kitchen prepping mise en place for the dinner rush when my phone buzzed in my apron pocket. I wiped my hands on a towel and pulled it out.
Unknown number. Portland area code.
My chest tightened.
I stepped into the back office and answered.
“Hello?”
“Zoe, it’s Doctor Rachel Bennett from Providence Medical Lab.”
Her voice was calm, but there was something edged inside it—urgency, maybe, or concern.
“Can you come to the clinic right away? I have your results, and I think we need to discuss them in person.”
My stomach dropped.
“Did you find something?”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “And I think you’ll want to see this as soon as possible.”
I told Carmen I had to step out for an hour, grabbed my coat and keys, and was in my car before I could think twice. The drive to the clinic took twelve minutes, but it felt like twelve hours. They found something. They found proof.
By the time I pulled into the lot, my heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.
Doctor Bennett was waiting for me in the same exam room. She stood when I walked in, gestured to the chair, and closed the door behind me. A manila folder sat on the desk between us. She opened it and slid a printed report across the desk.
“Zoe,” she said gently, “the results came back this morning. I wanted to call you right away, but I needed to double-check with the lab first because… well. Because this is serious.”
I stared down at the report. It was dense with chemical names and concentration levels, but one line near the top had been highlighted in yellow.
Ipecac syrup detected: 15 ml per 250 ml sample.
My vision blurred for a second. I blinked hard, forcing myself to focus.
“Ipecac,” I whispered. “That’s the stuff that makes you throw up.”
“Yes,” Doctor Bennett said. “It’s a syrup used to induce vomiting in cases of poisoning. It used to be common in first-aid kits, but it’s no longer recommended because it can be dangerous if misused. At this concentration—fifteen milliliters in a standard cup of coffee—it wouldn’t kill you outright, but it would absolutely cause chronic nausea, vomiting, fatigue, abdominal pain, and progressive weakness over time.”
I looked up at her.
“For how long?”
“If administered daily over several months, it could have severe cumulative effects. Dehydration. Electrolyte imbalance. Muscle weakness. Damage to the gastrointestinal lining.”
She paused, then said the words plainly.
“Zoe, someone has been poisoning you deliberately. And based on what you’ve told me, it’s been happening for at least three months.”
The room tilted. I gripped the edge of the desk to keep myself present.
Three months. November. That was when it started. The nausea. The exhaustion. The cramps. I thought I was sick. I thought I was stressed. I thought it was my fault.
But it was Jake.
Every single morning for three months, he smiled at me, kissed me, handed me a cup of coffee, and poisoned me.
“Zoe,” Doctor Bennett said, leaning forward, her voice firm now, “you need to go to the police right now. This is a crime. Whoever did this is committing assault—possibly attempted murder, depending on the circumstances. You need protection.”
I shook my head slowly.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I need more than this.” I tapped the report. “I need more evidence. I need to know exactly what he’s planning. If I go to the police now, he’ll deny it. He’ll say I’m making it up, or that I put the ipecac in the coffee myself to frame him. He’s smart. He has money. He has lawyers. And he’s already planning to take everything from me.”
Doctor Bennett’s face hardened.
“Zoe. If he’s poisoning you, he could escalate. You are in danger.”
“I know,” I said quietly. “But I’m not drinking his coffee anymore. I stopped four days ago. He doesn’t know I know, and I need to keep it that way until I have everything I need to stop him for good.”
She studied me for a long moment, then nodded.
“All right. But promise me this. If you feel unsafe, if anything changes, you call 911 or you call me.”
