We both started eating our soup.
Marcus was talking about his day, asking about my meetings in downtown Chicago, acting like the perfect husband, but I could see the excitement in his eyes.
He thought he was watching me eat my last meal.
“This soup is delicious,” I said, taking another spoonful from the clean bowl. “You’re such a good cook.”
Marcus beamed with pride.
“Anything for my beautiful wife.”
About twenty minutes after we finished eating, I was washing dishes when I heard Marcus make a strange sound behind me.
I turned around and saw his face had gone completely white.
“I don’t feel right,” he whispered, gripping the edge of the table.
Then the sweating started.
Big drops of sweat were rolling down his face, even though our house was cool.
His hands were shaking as he tried to stand up from his chair.
“Victoria,” he gasped. “Something’s wrong. I think I need to go to the hospital.”
