My husband slipped something into my soup, thinking I wasn’t looking; when he stepped out, I switched our bowls; what unfolded 30 minutes later left me in shock.

His face went really pale, like all the blood had drained out of it.

“I don’t feel good,” he whispered, putting his hand on his stomach.

Then he started sweating.

Big drops of sweat were rolling down his face, even though our house wasn’t hot.

He tried to stand up from his chair, but his legs gave out, and he fell hard onto the kitchen floor.

That’s when the shaking started.

Now I’m watching my husband of five years die from whatever poison he put in my soup.

The same poison that should have killed me instead.

I should call 911, but I can’t move.

I can’t even breathe properly.

Marcus’s phone is buzzing on the counter.

I can see the screen from where I’m standing.

It’s a text message from someone named S that says, “Is it done? Call me when she’s gone.”