Those seven words fell into the silent room like seven tombstones crashing down on my chest. I stumbled backward, bumping into the medicine cart with a loud, jarring clang. A chill shot up my spine, seeping into every pore. The room around me seemed to warp. That diffuser was no longer a wellness accessory. It had morphed into a monster, exhaling the breath of death. I looked into my father-in-law’s eyes and saw a desperate, silent plea. A primal fear seized my mind. Without another thought, I dropped the catheter, turned, and bolted from the room like a mad woman. I scrambled down the stairs, nearly tripping and falling, and ran straight for the front door, shoving the heavy oak panel open to escape into the yard. The twilight of early evening was settling, swallowing the large house in shadows. I stood in the driveway, panting, my heart hammering against my ribs as if trying to break free. A cool breeze hit my face, but sweat poured from my forehead. Why was I running? If what he said was true, running away was tantamount to leaving him at the mercy of a killer. And if I fled, what would I tell Michael when he returned? He would undoubtedly accuse me of negligence, of abandoning his elderly, helpless father, leading to his demise. I am a health care professional. 15 years in the field had forged in me the strength to face life and death. I could not afford to panic. I took a deep breath, smoothed my disheveled hair, and turned back toward the house. The oak door opened like the maw of a great beast waiting to devour its prey. But this time, my steps were steady. I crept back upstairs and pressed my ear against the door to his room. It was quiet inside, save for the hum of the machines. I pushed the door open. Arthur’s eyes were closed again, and the heart rate on the monitor had returned to its normal range, as if the terrifying moment had been a figment of my imagination. But I knew it was real. The first thing I did was march straight to the diffuser. I decisively yanked the plug from the wall. The green LED on the device went dark and the white mist ceased. I carried the machine into the onsuite bathroom. I started to pour the liquid out, but my professional instincts screamed at me not to destroy the evidence. I quickly grabbed a sterile urine sample cup, always stocked in the family medicine cabinet, and collected the last few drops of liquid from the bottom of the reservoir. I brought the cup to my nose and sniffed. The strong scent of frankincense hit me first, but beneath that fragrant layer, my trained sense of smell detected a very faint acurid odor reminiscent of bitter almonds. My hands started to shake violently. Based on my pharmacological knowledge, I had a terrifying guess as to what this could be. It was likely a sophisticated mixture containing cyanide or perhaps a type of neuromuscular blocking agent. Inhaled as a fine mist over a long period, it would gradually weaken the respiratory muscles, causing the lungs to collapse, leading to respiratory failure. For a bedridden patient to die of pneumonia or respiratory failure was tragically common. No one would suspect a thing, not even a medical examiner, without a specific and thorough toxicological screen. It was a perfect murder plan, painless, bloodless, and cloaked in the guise of filial piety and new age wellness. I tucked the sample cup into the pocket of my scrubs and scanned the room. If Michael had planned this so meticulously, he wouldn’t be flying blind. I remembered my husband’s obsessive need for control. He always had to have everything within his line of sight. I started searching in the hidden corners, places with the most comprehensive view. On top of the large armwire mixed in with some decorative boxes, I saw a tiny black dot reflecting the light. Another was hidden in a gap in the air conditioning vent cover. Cameras. Miniature spy cameras. My skin crawled. So, Michael wasn’t in Hawaii for Khloe’s camp. Or at least his mind was still right here in this room. He was monitoring me, monitoring the slow, methodical death of his own father. His loving words of instruction, his caring gestures before he left, it was all a performance. I knew in that moment that I was on his stage. Every move I made was potentially being recorded. I had to act. I had to become the clumsy wife, the dedicated but slightly inept daughter-in-law to dispel any suspicion that I had discovered his plot. I took a deep breath, composed my features into a frustrated scowl, and carried the diffuser’s water reservoir to the bathroom sink, pretending to refill it.
“Oh, shoot!” I exclaimed, intentionally, letting my hand slip.
The plastic reservoir clattered onto the tiled floor.
Crack!
The sound of hard plastic hitting stone echoed in the bathroom. A large fracture appeared and water spilled everywhere. I scrambled to pick it up, then faint slipping again, knocking the entire base of the machine into the puddle. Water seeped into the internal circuitry. A sizzling sound was followed by a plume of acrid smoke.
“Oh no, it’s broken,” I lamented, my face a mask of regret and fear.
I muttered just loud enough for the camera’s microphone to pick it up.
“This thing cost hundreds of dollars. I’m so clumsy. Michael’s going to kill me when he gets back.”
