My Husband Thought He Drugged My Tea Every Night — He Didn’t Know I Swapped Our Cups
Part 2
The text on the screen burned itself into my memory.
“Is she under yet?”
Megan had asked, a timestamp showing she sent it right after he handed me the tea.
“Yeah, swallowed every drop,” Craig replied, his digital arrogance making my stomach churn.
“The fog is becoming her permanent state.”
“Good,” Megan wrote back.
“The lawyer says if Dr.
Robinson signs the incompetency papers by Tuesday, we can list the lakehouse by Friday.”
“I’m tired of waiting for our life to start.”
My heart slammed against my ribs.
The lakehouse wasn’t just property, it was my father’s favorite place, the heart of my childhood.
I scrolled further back, finding bank transfers flagged by Arthur’s software.
Craig hadn’t just been lifting my jewelry.
He had opened a series of offshore accounts under Megan’s name, funneling my father’s life insurance payouts directly into a luxury condo development in the Caribbean.
They weren’t just waiting for me to be declared incompetent.
They were planning to move away the moment I was locked up in a care home.
They had even researched facilities with reviews mentioning minimal visitation and heavy sedation.
I sat in the dark, the pale glow of the laptop screen casting long shadows across the room.
I realised then that I wasn’t just fighting for my money.
I was fighting for my survival.
If I let them take me to that specialist on Tuesday, I would never walk out a free woman again.
Suddenly, the stairs groaned under a heavy footstep.
Craig was coming up, but he wasn’t heading to bed.
Through the crack in the door, I saw him carrying a small black bag, the kind a doctor might carry.
He opened the bedroom door, and I realised he wasn’t waiting for Tuesday anymore.
He wanted to speed up the process tonight.
I had seen the face of my real enemy, my best friend.
Now, I was about to face the man who promised to love me until death do us part.
And he was trying to make that happen sooner than planned.
The door glided open on its well-oiled hinges.
He stood in the doorway, a dark silhouette holding that medical bag.
I lay perfectly still, my eyes squeezed shut, taking the slow, rhythmic breaths I had practiced for weeks.
I felt the mattress dip as he sat down on my side of the bed.
He brushed a strand of hair away from my face, a gesture that used to make me feel safe but now felt like a snake slithering over my skin.
I heard the metallic click of the bag opening, followed by the unmistakable sound of a plastic cap being pulled off a syringe.
My blood turned to ice.
The tea wasn’t working fast enough for him, and he and Megan were too impatient to wait for Friday.
He wanted me fully incapacitated right now.
I felt the cold tip of the needle touch the skin of my upper arm.
I couldn’t act my way out of a coma.
Just as his thumb moved to the plunger, my hidden phone erupted with the screaming two-in-the-morning alarm I had set as a fail-safe.
I bolted upright, gasping and flailing my arms like a woman waking from a night terror.
I kicked the medical bag off the bed, sending the syringe skittering across the hardwood floor.
Craig jumped back, his face a mask of shock and fury.
I stared at him, pretending to be utterly disoriented, tears streaming down my face.
“Craig, what’s happening?”
I sobbed.
“Why is the alarm going off?”
He shifted gears immediately, pulling the concerned husband mask back over his face.
“It’s okay, honey, you had another episode,” he cooed.
“I was just getting some smelling salts from the first aid kit to wake you up.”
I pointed at the black bag on the floor.
“Why is it in the bedroom?”
He lied smoothly, telling me he brought it up earlier because of a headache, urging me to go back to sleep.
I waited until he went downstairs for a drink, then checked my phone and saw a flurry of missed calls from an unknown number.
When I dialed back, it wasn’t Megan.
It was Detective Harris, the officer who handled my father’s case last year.
“Brenda,” he said, his voice urgent.
“Why am I looking at a shipping manifest for your father’s vintage watches, signed by Megan?”
And that was the moment I realised the depths of their greed.
But what else had the detective found in that crate that proved Craig was planning to bury me alive?
