Chapter 7 - The Final Wednesday
Wednesday, November 1st, arrived under a heavy blanket of dark gray rain clouds.
The rain poured against our living room windows in relentless torrents, the wind howling through the tall pine trees that surrounded our Oakridge property.
Ethan took the day off work, claiming he wanted to stay home and nurse me through my "worsening condition."
Throughout the afternoon, he moved around the house like a quiet, predatory shadow. He was unnervingly attentive—placing extra blankets over my lap, fluffing my pillows, softly rubbing my shoulders. But beneath his warm touch, I could sense a frantic, electric energy crackling through him.
He was waiting for nightfall.
At 6:30 PM, the rain turned into a fierce autumn storm. Thunder rumbled in the distance, shaking the glass panes of the patio doors.
"I’ll make us a special dinner tonight, Claire," Ethan said, standing near the doorway of the bedroom, his silhouette framed by the hallway light. "A nice rich cream soup and some elderberry wine. It’ll help you sleep deeply."
"That sounds wonderful, Ethan," I said from the bed, my voice weak, my face pale. "I’m so tired... so terribly tired."
"I know, my love," he whispered softly, his eyes glinting in the dim light. "Just a little longer. Soon, all your pain will be gone."
He turned and walked downstairs to the kitchen.
The moment he vanished, I slid out of bed.
I was dressed in dark, comfortable clothing beneath my robe. From under the mattress, I pulled out a small, high-definition button camera that Rosa had helped me purchase the day before. I pinned it carefully to the collar of my cardigan, tucking the tiny lens behind a silver decorative button.
I stepped into the hallway and crept silently down the staircase, hiding behind the wooden balustrade overlooking the kitchen.
Below me, Ethan was standing near the stove.
A heavy pot of cream soup was simmering on the burner. Beside the stove lay a small, dark velvet bundle—freshly unwrapped—alongside a glass vial containing a thick, dark liquid.
Ethan picked up the vial.
With smooth, unhurried precision, he unstoppered the glass bottle and poured the entire contents into the bowl of soup he had set aside specifically for me. He stirred it carefully with a silver spoon, watching the dark liquid dissolve into the white cream until no trace remained.
He picked up the bowl, set it on a wooden tray alongside a glass of wine, and turned toward the stairs.
A cold, razor-sharp focus settled over my mind.
I retreated silently back up the stairs, slipped into the bedroom, and sat up against the pillows, my heart beating with the steady, heavy rhythm of a war drum.
Ethan pushed the bedroom door open with his foot, holding the tray before him like an offering.
"Dinner is served, my sweet Claire," he said, setting the tray gently across my lap.
I looked at the bowl of poisoned soup. The steam rose from the surface, carrying the sweet, heavy scent of garlic, cream, and thallium.
"It smells delicious, Ethan," I murmured, picking up the silver spoon.
Ethan stood beside the bed, his hands folded behind his back, his eyes fixed on the spoon in my hand with a terrifying, unblinking intensity.
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"Eat it while it’s hot, honey," he encouraged softly, his voice dropping into a hush. "Every last drop."
I lifted the spoon to my lips.
