When he finally fell asleep, I stepped back downstairs.
Vanessa was still there, lounging on the couch with a glass of wine like she didn’t have a care in the world. She glanced up.
“He’s asleep already?”
“Yes,” I said.
She swirled her glass, studying me. “You’ve been acting different lately. Suspicious. Almost like you don’t appreciate all the effort I put in around here.”
I folded my arms. “Funny. I thought you liked helping family.”
Her smile curved, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I do, but sometimes I feel like you think I’m expendable. Like no matter what I do, it’s never good enough for you.”
I held her stare. “If you want recognition, you’ll have to earn it. Honestly, that’s how the world works.”
Her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass.
“Not everyone gets what they deserve.”
That was the closest thing to a confession I’d ever heard from her.
She left shortly afterward, muttering something about needing an early night.
I locked the door behind her and exhaled, hands trembling.
Collins called within minutes. “The soup sample’s already at the lab. I don’t need to tell you it tasted wrong.”
“No,” I muttered. “You don’t.”
The next morning, Collins met me outside the precinct. He handed me the test results.
“Concentration levels were nearly double the last batch. If Ethan had kept eating that soup every night, he wouldn’t have lasted another month.”
My throat went dry. “She thinks I’m signing the new will soon. She’s running out of time.”
He nodded. “And when people run out of time, they make mistakes. That’s what we’re counting on.”
That weekend, I invited Vanessa over again. She arrived with her usual performance face on, smiling big and talking about some spa trip she wanted to take.
She made dinner—pasta this time—and again, the vial appeared.
I didn’t stop her. I needed more.
During dinner, Ethan played along like a champ, pretending to feel tired after a few bites. He rubbed his stomach and groaned.
“I think I need to lie down.”
Vanessa rushed to his side, fussing over him with a tone that sounded genuine to anyone who didn’t know better.
But I was watching her eyes.
There was no panic there.
Just calculation.
She was measuring the success of her plan.
When Ethan excused himself, I leaned back in my chair and asked, “How’s the pasta? Tastes good to you?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Of course. Why wouldn’t it?”
“No reason,” I said. “Just wondering if you like what you’ve made.”
The silence stretched between us like a taut wire.
She smiled finally, but it was thin, brittle. “I always make sure my family’s well taken care of.”
My chest tightened, but I kept my tone even. “Good. Because I do, too. More than you realize.”
That night, Collins picked up the pasta sample.
The test confirmed it.
