Chapter 4 - The Poisoned Cup
Dinner was a masterpiece of roasted Cornish hen, wild rice, and asparagus spears glistening with garlic butter.
I pushed the food around my porcelain plate, forcing down small mouthfuls while Daniel entertained me with stories about commercial leases.
He spoke with such effortless charm, laughing at his own jokes, pouring me sparkling water from a crystal carafe.
Sitting across from him, watching his elegant hands carve the meat, a chill deeper than the grave settled into my marrow.
How many other women had sat at this table before me?
How many trusting, lonely people had looked into those bright green eyes, believing they had finally found late-life companionship, only to wake up in a clandestine operating theater?
At precisely seven-fifty-five, Daniel pushed his chair back and stood up, smoothing down his cashmere sweater.
"Eight o'clock, Margaret," he announced cheerfully, walking toward the commercial espresso and tea station.
"Time for your restorative brew. I added a touch of local clover honey tonight to soothe your throat."
I watched his reflection in the dark, panoramic window overlooking the swimming pool.
He reached into his pocket, brought out the amber dropper bottle, and unscrewed the cap with practiced, silent dexterity.
One, two, three, four, five thick, viscous drops fell into the steaming porcelain mug.
He swirled the liquid with a silver spoon, smiled at his handiwork in the reflection, and turned around with the steaming cup held in both hands.
"Drink every drop, sweetheart," he said, setting the cup directly in front of me on the linen placemat.
"The herbs take twenty minutes to work their magic. You'll sleep like an angel tonight."
I looked down at the dark, fragrant tea, the steam curling upward into my face carrying the sweet scent of honey and the bitter undertone of Dexmedetomidine.
"Thank you, Daniel," I said softly, lifting the cup to my lips.
I paused, letting the porcelain touch my lower lip, then let out a sharp, sudden gasp, knocking my fork off the table.
The silver fork clattered loudly against the travertine tile, skittering across the floor toward the baseboards.
"Oh dear, clumsy hands tonight," I murmured, pressing my palm against my forehead.
"Daniel, would you be a dear and retrieve that? My lower back is seizing up again."
Daniel frowned slightly, a tiny flash of irritation darting across his eyes before he recovered his polite mask.
"Of course, honey. Don't strain yourself."
The second his head disappeared beneath the edge of the dining table, I moved with the lightning speed of a woman fighting for her life.
I poured three-quarters of the steaming tea into the hollow decorative ceramic vase holding dried eucalyptus beside my elbow, leaving just a thin layer at the bottom.
I returned the cup to my saucer just as Daniel's head popped back up, holding the fork.
I wiped my mouth with my linen napkin, smiling at him through heavy, half-closed eyelids.
"Mmm... delicious, darling. The honey really makes a difference."
Daniel's gaze dropped to the nearly empty cup, and an unsettling, triumphant smile spread across his handsome face.
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"It always does, Margaret," he whispered, his tone dropping into a terrifying, icy stillness.
"It always does."
