Margaret’s eyes burned into mine. “She ruined everything.”
“No,” I said. “You did.”
They led Margaret out in cuffs while she screamed, not fear but rage, shouting about money and betrayal as if she were the injured party.
An hour later, Dr. Prescott was arrested at his home. The police found what they needed: prescription records, messages between him and Margaret, financial transfers, notes about dosages. His smile vanished quickly when handcuffs replaced his stethoscope.
The evidence was overwhelming: recordings from the hotel, recorded calls from my study, the pills collected and tested, financial records showing Margaret’s cash withdrawals and payments to Prescott, emails discussing my life insurance policy and will.
Three weeks later, the Crown laid charges that made the newspapers flinch.
Attempted murder. Conspiracy. Fraud.
For the first time, my name appeared next to the word victim instead of suspect.
But the hardest part wasn’t court.
It was sitting at home after the arrests and staring at the space on the bed where Margaret used to sleep, realizing the person I’d trusted most had been slowly turning my marriage into a funeral plan.