Is it done?
I’m standing in my kitchen in downtown Chicago, watching my husband Marcus die on the cold marble floor.
And all I can think about is how this poison was meant for me.
His body is shaking violently. White foam is coming out of his mouth like he’s some kind of sick animal. His eyes are wide open, staring at me, but I can tell he can’t really see me anymore.
He’s trying to say something, but only weird choking sounds are coming out.
This is all wrong.
So very wrong.
Thirty minutes ago, we were sitting at our dining table like any normal Tuesday night.
Marcus had made his famous tomato soup, the same recipe his mom taught him when we first started dating in college.
He was being extra sweet tonight, telling me how much he loved me and how lucky he was to have such a successful wife.
