Three hours later, the lab called. The report was ready. The technician handed me the sealed envelope, his hands trembling slightly. In the car, I opened it. The analysis was clear and devastating: Propranolol, in a concentration ten times higher than the normal therapeutic dose. A dose that, according to the technician’s note, could cause severe bradycardia, hypotension, and possible cardiac arrest in individuals with pre-existing cardiovascular conditions. Exactly what I had: hypertension and a slight heart murmur. Conditions that Rachel knew perfectly well. Conditions that would make my passing seem tragically natural. A perfect, untraceable plan.
I drove straight to Nora’s office. When I entered, she was already waiting for me behind her imposing oak desk. I placed the lab report on the desk without a word.
She read it quickly, her face remaining impassive except for a brief, sharp tightening of her lips. “Propranolol,” she said finally. “An interesting choice. Difficult to detect in a routine autopsy. Clever.”
“She studied nursing for two semesters before dropping out,” I explained, the memory now feeling sinister. “She must have learned just enough.”