MY WIFE KILLED OUR THREE CHILDREN. I WAS SENT TO DIE

Chapter 9

Arthur chewed slowly, letting the sweet syrup and heavy cooking oil coat his tongue. He swallowed with a deliberate, smooth gulp, keeping his eyes fixed straight on Eleanor's face.

Eleanor didn't move. She didn't even seem to be breathing. Her eyes were wide, bloodshot around the edges, her pupils dilated as she stared at his throat, waiting for the deadly chemical to seize his muscles and tear his heart apart.

"Mmm," Arthur said softly, dabbing the corner of his mouth with a napkin. "That’s really quite good, Eleanor. The syrup has a very rich... distinct flavor today."

"D-does it?" Eleanor stammered, her voice thin and high. She clasped her hands together in front of her apron, her chest rising and falling in shallow, jagged beats. "It’s... it’s a new brand I picked up. I’m glad you like it. Eat more, Arthur. Finish the whole plate."

"You really outdid yourself," Arthur murmured. He picked up his fork, cut another generous piece, and brought it straight to his mouth.

Eleanor’s tongue darted out to wet her dry lips. She took a tiny step closer, her knuckles white as she squeezed her own fingers. Any second now, her frantic eyes seemed to scream. Fall. Collapse. Die.

Arthur chewed three times—and then stopped completely.

His body went rigid as a board.

His eyes widened in sudden, horrifying shock, staring blankly at the wall behind her.

Clatter!

The silver fork slipped from his fingers, crashing violently against the ceramic plate before bouncing onto the wooden table.

"Arthur?" Eleanor squeaked, her heart leaping into her throat.

Arthur didn't answer. A violent gasp tore out of his chest, sounding like a man drowning in deep water. He slammed both hands against his breastbone, clutching his shirt so hard the fabric strained and tore at the buttons.

"Aah... gh...!" Arthur choked, his body slumping forward over the table. His elbows dragged across the placemat, knocking his glass of water onto its side. Water spilled across the dark wood, pooling right under his face.

Eleanor gasped, taking a sharp step back.

A dark, grotesque flicker of absolute triumph flashed across her face—a split second of pure, unfiltered evil before she forced her expression into a mask of hysterical panic.

"Arthur!" she shrieked, her voice loud enough to ring off the walls. "Arthur, oh my God! What's happening to you?! What's wrong?!"

Arthur let out a low, agonizing groan, his back arching as if an invisible blade had been driven straight into his spine. He rolled onto his side, his head slamming lightly onto the wooden surface of the table. His mouth opened, gasping for air that wouldn't come, his fingers twitching violently against the spilled water.

"My... my chest..." Arthur rasped out, his voice a broken, raspy whisper. "Eleanor... I can't... I can't breathe... my heart..."

"Oh Lord, Arthur!" Eleanor cried, putting her hands over her mouth. She dropped to her knees beside his chair, but she didn't touch him. She didn't loosen his collar. She didn't rub his back. She just stayed inches away, watching his trembling body with hungry, terrified eyes. "Hold on, honey! Just hold on! What did you do?! What's happening?!"

"Call... call an ambulance..." Arthur groaned, his head rolling toward her. His eyes were half-closed, fixed on her face, watching every single micro-expression of her dark soul. "Call 911... please..."

"Yes! Yes, of course! An ambulance!" Eleanor sobbed out loud, her voice echoing with fake hysterics.

She scrambled to her feet, reaching frantically into her apron pocket for her phone. But instead of dialing three simple numbers for emergency services, her fingers instinctively tapped on a saved contact right at the top of her recent calls list: Dr. Marcus Vance.

She brought the phone to her ear, turning her back to Arthur so he wouldn't see her screen. Her body shook with a mixture of dark adrenaline and sheer terror.

"Pick up, pick up, pick up..." she whispered under her breath, her tears instantly drying up the moment she looked away from him.

"Eleanor..." Arthur’s voice groaned weakly from the table behind her, sounding fainter, like a man slipping fast into the dark. "Help me..."

"I'm calling for help right now, Arthur! Don't move!" Eleanor yelled back over her shoulder, her voice shrill and full of theatrical panic.

On the fourth ring, the line clicked open.

"Eleanor?" Marcus’s smooth, anxious voice came through the speaker, low and tense. "Is it done? What’s going on?"

Eleanor squeezed her eyes shut, a sinister, breathless smile tugging at the corner of her lips while her voice remained high and panicked for the record. "Marcus! Oh God, Marcus, come quick! It’s Arthur! He just collapsed at the breakfast table! He can't breathe! His heart is stopping!"

"Is he conscious?" Marcus demanded, his voice sharp with professional distance, hiding his excitement. "Did he consume the whole dose?"

"He took two big bites!" Eleanor whispered loudly into the receiver, stepping closer to the kitchen archway. "He’s on the table right now! He’s choking! Marcus, he’s dying!"

"Listen to me very carefully," Marcus instructed smoothly over the phone. "Do not dial 911 yet. If the paramedics arrive too early, they might attempt resuscitation or run an emergency blood panel. Wait five minutes until his pulse completely stops. Then call me, and I will arrive to pronounce the heart attack and handle the death certificate myself. Do you understand?"

"Yes... yes, I understand," Eleanor whimpered, tears of dark relief spilling over her eyelashes. "Five minutes. I’ll wait five minutes."

"Good girl," Marcus whispered. "It’s over, Eleanor. We won."

Eleanor took a deep, shuddering breath and ended the call. She stood in the quiet archway for a long second, smoothing down her hair, adjusting her silk robe, and wiping the sweat from her forehead.

She turned around slowly, putting on her tragic, sobbing face once more as she prepared to walk back to the dining table to watch her husband take his final, agonizing breath.

"Arthur..." Eleanor whimpered, dragging her feet as she stepped into the dining room. "Arthur, stay with me... the doctor is on his way..."

She stopped dead in her tracks.

The room had gone completely silent.

Arthur was no longer lying flat on the table. He was sitting straight up in his chair.

He was casually holding a cloth napkin, calmly wiping the spilled water off his sleeves and fingers. His face wasn't pale. His eyes weren't rolling back. There was no sweat on his brow, no strain in his throat, and not a single trace of pain in his posture.

He looked up at her, his dark eyes sharp, focused, and terrifyingly clear.

Eleanor’s phone slipped out of her numb fingers, clattering loudly against the hardwood floor.

Her jaw dropped open. Her breath caught in her chest, a sudden, suffocating knot of pure horror tightening around her throat.

"W-what..." Eleanor stammered, her voice barely a squeak. "What... what are you..."

Arthur set the napkin neatly beside his plate. He picked up his fork once more, cut another piece of the pancake, and popped it into his mouth, chewing with calm, deliberate pleasure.

He swallowed smoothly, looked her dead in the eye, and smiled.

"You really should have used more syrup, Eleanor," Arthur said softly, his voice echoing through the silent house like a death knell. "It tastes a bit too much like vegetable oil."