“You’ll have everything,” he told her.

Margaret’s reply chilled me to my core.

“The insurance alone is eight hundred thousand,” she said. “Plus everything else. Nearly two million.”

Then came the worst part.

“She’s been poisoning him slowly,” the doctor said.

Margaret responded calmly:

“Small doses. It looks natural.”

They were talking about my death like it was a schedule.

Like it was inevitable.

I stepped back from the door, shaking.

My wife of thirty-five years.

Planning my murder.

With my doctor.

I called Marcus.

Then the police.

And instead of confronting them, I made a choice:

I would help catch them.

I went home.

And I pretended nothing was wrong.

When Margaret returned early from her “trip,” she played the part perfectly—concerned, attentive, caring.

She brought me water.

She handed me pills.

“The usual vitamins,” she said sweetly.