I kept playing the tired, forgetful wife.
I let Julian tell me, that Friday, that he had another late function, and that Marcus would drive me home.
I said, “Of course, honey. Thank you.”
What Julian didn’t know was that I had spent two weeks turning his trap into mine.
My attorney had gone to the police with the recording, the toxicology report, and Vanessa Hale’s quietly opened conservatorship file.
A sedative confirmed in my blood.
A recorded phone call planning it.
A lawyer building a legal case on the back of a crime.
It was, in the words of the detective who took my statement, “about as complete as these ever get.”
That Friday, when Marcus handed me the opened water bottle in the parking garage, I thanked him, and I did not drink it.
I only pretended to.
And when he started to drive — not toward home, but across town, toward the address where Vanessa was waiting with her documents and her notary stamp — he had no idea that two unmarked cars were following the SUV the entire way.
