The day I went into labor, Nathaniel screamed at me until my blood pressure soared. He shattered a crystal vase near my feet. When my water broke, he finished his wine before calling Chloe.
At the hospital, the final act began.
The drug Dr. Collins administered slowed my vitals to a whisper. Monitors flattened. I became a corpse in their eyes.
But I had prepared for this. Three months earlier, I amended my will. A life clause activated upon my “death,” ordering a forensic audit and releasing digital files labeled Justice to the Massachusetts Attorney General’s Office.
The lawyer arrived as Nathaniel attempted his grieving performance.
“Upon her clinical death,” the lawyer read calmly, “if twins are born, a full toxicology screening and evidence release shall be executed.”
Nathaniel paled.
The district prosecutor entered with officers. “We have recordings,” she said. “You discussing dosage. We have surveillance footage of Ms. Bennett celebrating your wife’s death.”
Margaret shrieked. Nathaniel collapsed.
That was when I opened my eyes.
The terror on his face was almost comical. He staggered back, knocking over a tray.