Chapter 7 - The Poisoned Chalice
The next evening, the house smelled of roasted garlic and rosemary. I had spent the afternoon preparing a lavish dinner—steak, fondant potatoes, and a heavy red wine.
Marcus and Sylvia sat at the dining table, laughing and chatting. They were in a euphoric mood. Marcus had spent the morning browsing luxury real estate online, completely oblivious that his offshore account was a digital ghost town monitored by the FBI.
“This looks amazing, Clara,” Marcus said, raising his wine glass. “To us. To weathering the storm.”
“To weathering the storm,” Sylvia echoed, her eyes gleaming with greed.
I raised my glass, not taking a single sip. “To truth.”
I had placed Eleanor’s baby monitor on the center of the table. Usually, it transmitted the sound of her labored, drugged breathing. Tonight, it was silent.
“She’s very quiet tonight,” Sylvia noted, cutting into her steak. “I should probably go check on her after dinner. Make sure she’s… comfortable.”
“You don't need to check on her, Sylvia,” I said, my voice dropping its soft, accommodating tone. It became flat, precise, and entirely devoid of emotion.
Marcus looked up, his brow furrowing. “What do you mean? We have to make sure she’s okay.”
“She’s perfectly fine,” a new voice echoed from the hallway.
Marcus and Sylvia froze.
Eleanor walked into the dining room. She wasn't wearing the dirty, moth-eaten nightgown. She was dressed in a sharp navy-blue pantsuit. She was leaning on a silver cane, but her posture was straight, and her eyes were burning with absolute fury.
Sylvia dropped her fork. It clattered loudly against the china plate.
May you like
“Grandma?” Marcus stammered, his face draining of all color. “What… how are you out of bed?”
“It’s amazing what a little fresh water and a lack of sedatives will do for a woman’s health, Marcus,” Eleanor said coldly, taking a seat at the head of the table.
