I pretended to swallow them.
But I didn’t.
Each time, I hid them.
Each time, I let her believe I was getting weaker.
The cameras captured everything.
Her behavior changed subtly—more attentive, more watchful.
Three times a day, she brought me pills.
Three times a day, I played along.
It was the longest week of my life.
Then one night, everything came to a head.
At 2 a.m., she got out of bed.
I listened as she went downstairs.
Through hidden microphones, the police heard everything.
“It’s almost done,” she whispered.
“How weak is he?” the doctor asked.
“He can barely stand,” she said.
Then:
“I’m doubling the dose.”
And finally:
“By Monday, I’ll be a widow.”
She laughed.
The same laugh Sophie had described.
That was all the police needed.
At dawn, they came.
Margaret opened the door, confused.
Then she saw me—standing, alive.
Her face changed instantly.
Shock.
Then rage.
“You knew,” she said.
Sophie stood beside me.
Margaret’s expression twisted.
“That little brat heard me,” she snapped.
