My Husband Wants To Kill Me

Chapter 7 The Abnormal Pills

At Sorella Cafe, I finally sat down to my first meal of the day.

James, having downed three espressos, was sketching something in his notebook.

I snorted derisively, "Vodka plus espresso—you've got a death wish, don't you?"

He ignored me, pulling out a cigarette from the pack on the table and tapping it lightly.

"I've got a rough idea of the relationships here. You suspect your husband is having an affair with a woman code-named Black Widow, and that the affair has been going on for two years."

"Correct."

"You think they conspired to kill your unborn child."

My heart clenched.

"Yes, and now they're planning to kill me."

"The motive is your wealth," he pointed to my massive diamond ring, "and the evidence is in those messages—they've spelled everything out. But the messages disappear by the next day!"

Uncertainty flickered in my eyes, and I remained silent.

"So, our goal is to determine whether you're losing your mind or if your husband really is cheating."

My heart pounded in rhythm with his tapping on the table.

"We'll soon find out if those messages you saw were real or if you're going crazy. Hand over the pills your psychiatrist gave you."

I passed him the bottle.

The tiny pills had microscopic letters engraved on them. He pulled out a magnifying glass and examined them closely.

"They're placebos, not psychiatric meds."

"What does that mean?" I asked, bewildered.

"It means they're just little starch tablets! Have you been feeling drowsy and out of it before you got these meds?"

"Yes. I got them a couple of days ago—my husband watched me take them, but I didn't feel any different. The drowsiness has been there for a while... about a month. But why give me starch pills?"

"So that you'll take the 'medication' and still not get better."

My tongue felt stiff. "Are you saying these pills... are meant to keep me feeling low, depressed, and forgetful, convincing me that I'm getting worse, even if a professional doctor couldn't help? Does that mean Mark...?"

"Yeah, let's discuss him next. Tell me about your history with him."

"Mark is 35, ten years older than me. He was my psychiatrist when I was in high school, just starting his practice. He's climbed the ranks quickly and is now well-known in the field. So after returning to LA, I continued seeing him regularly, especially when I had any issues or unhappiness in my marriage—I'd go to him first. During one of these sessions, Eddy got to know him too. As for their personal relationship... I'm not sure. I've occasionally heard they play tennis together, but theoretically, Mark should be closer to me."

"Do they have any financial dealings? You mentioned your husband is in investments."

Something in my mind snapped, "That... I don't know... maybe... it's possible..."

"Was this latest visit to see Mark arranged by your husband too?"

"Yes, I wanted to go, and my husband made the arrangements. Ever since we got married, Eddy has always accompanied me to Mark's office." I leaned in closer to him, lowering my voice. "Mr. Connolly, are you suggesting..."

"You've guessed what I'm suggesting: your psychiatrist is in cahoots with your husband!"

I knew it!

A cold sweat broke out on my back, and my heart felt like it had plunged into an icy abyss.

During that last session, Mark had been probing me, hinting, and applying psychological pressure—turns out it was all premeditated! He was helping Eddy figure out if I was still in the dark, just as they planned. God, where is his professional ethics? What about the trust I'd placed in him for so many years? I'd considered him one of the closest friends in my life.

I grabbed the knife on the table and stabbed it into the cake in front of me. Then, I snatched the pack of cigarettes and the lighter from the table, lit one up, and took a deep drag. The smoke burned my lungs, and I broke into a violent cough.

James quickly snatched the cigarette from me and extinguished it, "What are you doing? We'll get complaints!"

I was coughing so hard that tears welled up in my eyes. "Eddy, Mark... is there anyone left in my life I can trust?"

James shrugged, looking unfazed, shaking the pill bottle.

"You don't have to take these, but reduce the dose gradually every day, got it? Now, the next step..." He slashed two lines across his notebook.

"We need to determine if your symptoms of drowsiness, forgetfulness, and depression are real!"

"I lost a child just over two months ago!" I exclaimed.

"I know, calm down!" he waved his hand at me. "Don't rush to conclusions. If you were me, living at the bottom of society, seeing the worst of humanity every day, you'd realize this is nothing!"

My eyes reddened as I bit my lip in frustration.

He shook his head in exasperation. "It's time, Princess, to step out of your fairy tale. Think hard—over the past month, have you and your husband been eating different things?"

I frowned in concentration. "You mean things he didn't eat, but I did? I have no idea..."

"Or is there something you've been eating almost every day for the past month?"

My eyes lit up. How could I have forgotten?

My every-day milk! It perfectly matched James' questions!

Every night, Eddy would pour the milk into a glass and hand it to me, watching as I drank it!

He never let me drink straight from the carton or pour it myself.

"It has to be the milk! He kept saying it would help me sleep, but ever since I started drinking it, I've been drowsy."

James pulled out a small sealed vial.

"Collect a sample tonight! You'll soon know if you're really losing your mind."

"You mean, my husband might... possibly..." It was like being struck by lightning, I trembled as that unspoken possibility shattered the last of my resolve.

"We're still in the speculation stage. Mrs. Claude, can we sign the contract now?"

"I... I need my lawyer to look it over first."

He gave me a look like I was an i***t, slamming a paper down in front of me. "Are you sure you can trust your lawyer? Sign it, so I can get to work!"

My lips twitched, and with a trembling hand, I signed my name.