My Husband Sent Me A Christmas Gift From Dubai. The Office Janitor Saw The Ribbon And Told Me Not To Open It. She Might Have Just Saved My Life.
The Survivor
This was the hardest part. I had to return to the scene and play the role of the lucky survivor. I closed the windows most of the way, leaving just a crack to let the air circulate but retaining a faint lingering smell of gas, enough for Caspian to notice but not enough to be dangerous.
I went back to bed, pulled up the covers, and waited. Lying in the dark, fear crept back in. What if he suspected something? What if he became desperate and attacked me directly when he saw his plan had failed? I gripped the small can of pepper spray hidden under my pillow, my last line of defense.
Time crawled by. About 45 minutes later, I heard the key in the lock. He was back. His footsteps were no longer cautious but hurried. He was expecting to find a house filled with gas, a wife no longer breathing. He stepped inside, and the first thing he did was sniff the air. I could imagine his nose twitching as he tried to gauge the gas concentration. He would be confused; the smell was too faint.
His footsteps halted in the living room silence. He was trying to figure out what went wrong. Then his footsteps headed towards my bedroom. My heart hammered against my ribs but I kept my breathing even. The door opened. He stood there staring at my motionless form. I could feel his gaze on me, cold and murderous. In this moment, the line between life and death was razor thin.
He leaned down, his face close to mine. I could feel his hot breath on my cheek, but the coldness emanating from his black heart was all I could sense. He reached out a trembling finger and placed it just under my nose to check my breathing. The instant his skin touched mine, I stirred, making a soft moaning sound as if in a dream, and rolled over to face the wall.
His hand shot back as if he’d touched a hot stove. He stumbled backward, bumping into the dresser.
“Alive? Still alive?” I heard him whisper, his voice filled with disbelief and panic.
He couldn’t believe it. By his calculations, the amount of gas released should have been more than enough to kill a sleeping person, yet here I was breathing steadily. He ran out of the room and back to the kitchen. I heard the click, click, click of the stove’s igniter. The flame caught. The gas was working, so why… why had the trap failed?
He frantically rechecked the windows; they were sealed. He stood in the middle of the kitchen, utterly bewildered. He returned to the bedroom and slumped into the armchair in the corner, his eyes never leaving me. He sat there for over an hour chain-smoking, the acrid smell filling the room. I knew he was contemplating a more direct approach, but his cowardice and meticulous nature won out. He was afraid of leaving physical evidence. He needed a natural death.
He stubbed out his cigarette and climbed into bed beside me, his back to me. His body was tense. He was already plotting Plan B. A domestic accident had failed; now it would have to be an accident outdoors, somewhere remote where a death could be more easily staged.
I lay beside the man who wanted me dead, thinking, “You’re disappointed, aren’t you, Caspian? Don’t worry, this is just the beginning. The final act has plenty more surprises in store for you.”
The next morning, weak sunlight filtered through the heavy curtains falling on my face as I feigned sleep. I heard the familiar clatter from the kitchen, the soft clinking of dishes and the smell of toasted bread and fried eggs. In the past, this would have been a happy awakening. Now, the aroma only filled me with revulsion and high alert. I knew the man in the kitchen had failed to turn it into a gas chamber just last night.
I waited another 15 minutes before groggily emerging from the bedroom. Caspian stood with his back to me, wearing a blue apron, looking like a devoted husband preparing breakfast. Hearing my footsteps, he turned, a bright smile on his face, but his eyes were bloodshot from a sleepless night of plotting.
“Good morning, sleepyhead. Did you have a good sleep? You were so deeply asleep I didn’t have the heart to wake you. I made your favorite eggs and toast. Eat up.”
I sat down, staring at the perfectly presented plate, wondering what special ingredients it might contain today. I feigned a headache, my voice groggy. “I slept like a log. Didn’t hear a thing. But it’s strange, last night I dreamt I was suffocating, like something was pressing down on my chest. I feel so sore this morning.”
The corner of Caspian’s eye twitched. His hand pouring orange juice froze for a fraction of a second. He placed the glass in front of me, forcing a laugh. “You’re probably just stressed. Maybe the air in here is too stuffy. I think being cooped up all day is making you feel worse.”
He sat down opposite me, avoiding my gaze. After a moment he spoke, his tone feigning excitement but I could hear the urgency beneath it. “Sloan, how about we get out of the city for a bit this weekend? Let’s go camping at Starved Rock State Park. The fresh air, the quiet, the beautiful river… it would be perfect for you to relax and clear your head.”
The Cliffside Confrontation
Starved Rock, I thought, smiling inwardly. A remote, rugged park with cliffs and a river. The perfect place to stage a tragic drowning or a fatal fall. With his indoor plan foiled, the beast was seeking a larger stage.
I looked up at him, my eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and hesitation. “That’s so far, Caspian. I don’t know if I have the energy.”
He quickly grabbed my hand. “We’ll be driving. You won’t have to walk. I’ll handle everything. You just sit back and enjoy the scenery. Please, Sloan. Think of it as a second honeymoon to make up for the last 3 years. I want to do this for you.”
Seeing his desperate expression, I knew this was the moment we had been waiting for. I gave a weak nod. “Okay, Caspian. As long as I’m with you, I’ll go anywhere.”
On Sunday morning, the sky over Chicago was overcast. Caspian was up early, bustling around packing a tent, food, and fishing gear into a rented pickup truck. From the balcony, I watched him meticulously check the tires and engine, the final preparations of a killer reviewing his tools.
I dressed in simple athletic wear, a micro recorder and a GPS tracker from Detective Beckett hidden in my jacket pocket. Before going downstairs, I sent a message to our secure group chat: “We’re leaving now. Black pickup truck, license plate… Stay close.”
Almost instantly, read receipts from Beckett and Zola appeared, steadying my nerves. In the truck, Caspian was the perfect gentleman, opening my door and fastening my seat belt. His face was unnaturally cheerful. He put on some soft instrumental music, trying to create a romantic atmosphere, but his knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel, and a sheen of sweat covered his brow despite the cold air conditioning.
As we entered the winding roads leading to the park, the surroundings became eerily quiet. Caspian slowed down, his eyes darting between the rear-view mirror and the dense woods on either side of the road. He was looking for the right spot, a place secluded and dangerous enough for his crime.
“Are you tired? We’re almost there. This spot has a great view. Let’s stop and stretch our legs,” he suddenly said, his voice trembling slightly.
He turned onto a narrow dirt path that led to a rocky overlook jutting out over the Illinois River. Below was a steep drop to the deep silent water. I clutched the recorder in my pocket, my finger on the “on” button. My heart was pounding but I knew I had to remain calm. The final act was beginning.
I turned to him and managed a faint smile. “Okay, let’s get some fresh air.”
The wind swept up from the river, cold and damp. The overlook was beautiful but treacherous, a perfect stage for a tragedy. Caspian led me to the very edge. He spread his arms wide, taking a deep breath, then turned to me. The fake concern was gone from his eyes, replaced by a cold, manic resolve.
“What do you think of this place?” he asked, his voice low. “Beautiful, isn’t it? A perfect place for a permanent rest.”
The implication hung in the air. I didn’t back down. I held up my phone, displaying the photo I had taken of him with Skyler and their son. “It’s lovely, Caspian. But a place this beautiful… you should have brought Skyler and your little boy, not me.”
The color drained from his face. His smile froze. He stared at the screen, speechless, as if he’d been slapped. “Wh… What is this? How did you… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I took a step forward, forcing him closer to the edge. I laughed a cold, sharp sound. “You don’t understand? Did you think I was that stupid, Caspian? Did you think I didn’t know you were never in Dubai? That you were living in Lincoln Park off my money while you gambled it all away? Did you think I didn’t know about the $2 million insurance policy?”
Every word was a blow shattering his facade. He trembled, looking from me to the abyss below. He realized the helpless prey he intended to slaughter was actually a hunter who had laid a trap.
“You were going to push me, weren’t you? Stage it as a tragic accident?” I pressed on, my voice echoing in the quiet clearing. “Too bad for you, Caspian. Your play is over.”
Cornered, Caspian’s composure snapped. He let out a wild, crazed laugh that bounced off the rock walls. “So you know everything!” he screamed, dropping all pretense. “I underestimated you. I thought you were just a brainless workhorse earning money for me to spend.”
He lunged towards me, his face contorted with rage. “And what about Dalia, the girl from 5 years ago? Did she deserve to die too?” I yelled, determined to get his full confession.
“Her name was the final trigger. She was stupid just like you,” he shrieked. “She was going to leave me when I was in debt, so she had to die. I sent her a gift, a masterpiece, and poof, she was gone, leaving me enough money to start over. And you’re next!”
