Now he was dying from his own poison, and I was completely fine.
I called 911 with shaking hands, watching Marcus take his final breaths on our kitchen floor.
“911, what’s your emergency?” the operator asked.
“My husband is dying,” I said, trying to sound panicked instead of relieved. “I think he’s been poisoned. Please send help to 1247 North Cleveland Avenue in Lincoln Park.”
“Ma’am, is he conscious? Is he breathing?”
I looked down at Marcus.
His body had stopped shaking.
His eyes were still open, but they were empty now.
“No. I think he’s gone.”
The paramedics arrived first, followed by two police officers.
Detective Rivera was a tall woman with short black hair who immediately started asking me questions while the paramedics confirmed that Marcus was dead.
“Mrs. Victoria Martinez, I’m Detective Rivera with Chicago PD. Can you tell me what happened here tonight?”
I had practiced this story in my head.
