Margaret’s laugh turned colder. “The life insurance alone is eight hundred thousand,” she said. “Plus the house, the savings, his pension. Close to two million when it’s done.”
My stomach twisted.
“And you’re sure the pills will work?” Prescott asked.
Margaret’s tone sharpened with certainty. “Small doses. Just enough to weaken his heart over time. He’s already dizzy, nauseous, confused. Everyone will think it’s natural.”
She paused, then said a word that made my blood ice.
“Digoxin.”
My doctor replied, pleased. “They won’t trace it.”
Margaret sounded almost affectionate. “Darling, you’re a genius.”
I stumbled backward from the door like I’d been shoved.
My vision blurred. My wife of thirty-five years was planning my death with my physician, and they were discussing it like a vacation itinerary.
I fumbled for my phone, hands shaking.
Marcus answered immediately. “Tell me you’re not inside the room.”
“I’m outside,” I whispered. “I heard them. She’s going to kill me. They said digoxin.”
“Get away from that door,” Marcus snapped. “Now. Go to the lobby. Stay visible. Don’t do anything heroic.”
I forced my legs to move.