"Alfred?"
The butler appeared in the doorway.
"Yes, Mrs. Everett?"
"Whose medication is this?"
Alfred hesitated.
"Mr. Everett's, ma'am. He's been experiencing stomach discomfort since the night before last."
Aurora's heart sank. The night before last. That was when she'd made him that spicy arrabbiata pasta.
Oh God.
She'd poisoned her own husband.
She found Phineas in the dining room, eating breakfast with the kind of slow, deliberate movements that suggested pain. A bowl of plain oatmeal sat in front of him. No coffee. No fruit. Just bland, safe food.
Aurora slid into the chair across from him.
"Your stomach. It's from the pasta I made you, isn't it?"
Phineas looked up, his grey eyes unreadable.
"What makes you think that?"
"Don't lie to me. I saw the antacids. Alfred told m
