At Thirty-Seven Weeks Pregnant, I Heard My Husband Tell My Doctor, “By Tomorrow Night, She’ll Be Gone”—He Had No Idea My Watch Was Recording Everything
PART ONE — THE VOICE BEHIND THE DOOR
At 2:14 in the morning, I learned that the man sleeping beside me every night had already planned my funeral.
I was thirty-seven weeks pregnant, admitted to St. Matthew Women’s Center in Charleston after my blood pressure suddenly spiked during a routine prenatal appointment.
My obstetrician wanted to induce labor the following morning.
My husband, Evan Hale, had spent the entire evening pretending to be terrified.
He rubbed my feet.
He adjusted my pillows.
He argued with nurses because he claimed the room was too cold for me.
He even called my mother’s favorite florist and ordered white roses for the suite.
Anyone watching us would have thought I had married the most devoted man in South Carolina.
I had believed the same thing for almost eight years.
Until that night.
Around midnight, Evan brought me a mug of warm chamomile tea.
“You need sleep,” he said, setting it beside the bed. “Tomorrow is going to be exhausting.”
I smiled.
“Since when do you make tea?”
“Since my wife decided to scare ten years off my life with high blood pressure.”
He kissed the top of my head.
Normally, I would have found it sweet.
But when I lifted the cup, there was a faint chalky residue floating near the bottom.
I didn’t immediately think poison.
I thought medication.
Maybe something one of the nurses had added.
But something about Evan’s expression bothered me.
He wasn’t watching my face.
He was watching the cup.
Waiting.
So I pretended to drink.
When he stepped into the bathroom, I poured most of the tea into the sink and replaced it with water from the pitcher beside my bed.
Ten minutes later, I began acting sleepy.
My eyes grew heavy.
My words became slow.
Eventually I let my head fall against the pillow.
Evan whispered my name twice.
I didn’t respond.
A few minutes later, the door opened.
Footsteps crossed the room.
Then I heard Evan murmur, “She’s out.”
Another man answered.
“Are you sure?”
I recognized the voice instantly.
Dr. Marcus Bell.
The obstetrician who had delivered hundreds of babies.
The doctor who had cared for me throughout the final trimester of my pregnancy.
