My sister Sophia’s name starts with S.
My own sister and my husband wanted me dead.
I finally grab my phone with shaking hands and call 911.
“Please help,” I whisper to the operator. “My husband is dying. I think he’s been poisoned.”
But even as I’m saying the words, I know it’s too late.
Marcus isn’t moving anymore.
His eyes are still open, but they’re empty now, like nobody’s home.
The poison that was supposed to kill me in my beautiful Chicago penthouse has killed him instead.
And I have no idea what I’m supposed to do now.
Three weeks ago, everything in my life was perfect.
At least that’s what I thought.
I was sitting in my corner office on the 40th floor of the Willis Tower in Chicago, looking out at Lake Michigan and feeling like I owned the world.
