Free Sample
Preview from chapter one
Six-seventeen. Two minutes later than the last time I checked. Frustration washed over me and I growled softly and continued pacing the kitchen tile in ragged arcs, every movement precise, even as my nerves vibrated on a filament stretched thin. My palms sweated, dried, sweated again. I checked the oven timer compulsively, even though I knew—down to the second—when the roast would be done.
On the counter, the mortar and pestle awaited. The bottle of Diazepam, two short of its usual count, rolled in a silent circle behind the coffee canister. I ran my thumb over the label. My breathing grew shallow with each pass. I’d crushed the pills myself, marveling at how fine the powder became, almost invisible, but not quite. Almost time for my special ingredient to go into Mom’s drink. Too soon and it might bring out a sour taste. Too late and it wouldn’t dissolve fully. I had to time it right. Perfect.
I set the table with surgical intent. White ceramic plates, aligned exactly an inch from the table’s edge. Stainless steel forks and knives that reflected the trembling lines of my hands. There was a clarity in the repetition of place setting, a kind of mantra. Two glasses. One for water. One for wine.
The wine was key. I’d chosen a soft merlot. Easy on the throat, just enough body to hide any aftertaste. The glasses waited by the bottle, crystal catching the last of the day’s sunlight, making them gleam with a cold, surgical blue. I checked my watch. Now or never.
I dumped the powder into Mom’s wine. Gave it a quick swirl with the back of my butter knife. The dark liquid swirled seductively, hiding its secret. My secret. Mom’s ruin. My victory.
Checked my watch again. She was always late. I could hear her upstairs, the faint metallic click of her earrings and the persistent, unhurried steps across the landing. Every sound stoked my pulse until I could feel my heart in my wrists and knees. My cock tried valiantly to rise, but anxiety blocked it. Another ingredient of my plan I hadn’t foreseen.
When Mom finally entered, she brought with her the scent of hand lotion and a vague chemical tang of hairspray. Her dress—navy, tasteful—accented her figure with a kind of effortless discipline. My mother had always been a striking woman, and in the years since my father’s departure, she’d only doubled down on maintaining herself. Instead of falling apart, she fell together, returning to her roots as a semi-wealthy bitch who needed to prove her superiority to everyone she met. I watched her eye the table, assessing my work, her lips pursing in a barely-there smile.