For just a fraction of a second, Lucía saw something unsettling in Felicity’s eyes. Not concern. Satisfaction. The feeling made Lucía’s stomach twist.
Trevor was traveling in Seattle that week, leaving the house eerily quiet. Lucía stayed close to Dolores throughout the day, helping her eat soup, steadying her steps, listening to her stories. By late afternoon, Dolores seemed slightly better, though her strength remained fragile.
At five thirty, Felicity entered the kitchen. Lucía was drying dishes, keeping her eyes lowered. Felicity moved with practiced confidence, filling the kettle, selecting a chamomile packet. Everything appeared ordinary. Then Felicity opened a narrow drawer beneath the counter, one rarely used. From it, she removed a small clear vial with no label. Lucía caught only a glimpse. A quick tilt of the wrist. A few drops into the cup. A gentle stir.
Lucía’s heart pounded violently.
Felicity placed the cup on a tray with two biscuits and left moments later, heading out for a yoga class as if nothing of consequence had occurred. Lucía stood frozen, water dripping from her hands. Fear pressed against her ribs, sharp and undeniable.