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.
A Toxic Glass of Milk
That night, an unseasonable rain began to fall over Chicago, the steady drumming against the window panes creating a bleak and dreary atmosphere. I sat huddled on the bed wrapped in a thick comforter, staring blankly at a comedy on TV without comprehending a single word. The apartment was bathed in a warm yellow light that felt cozy visually but was bone-chillingly cold emotionally.
Caspian was in the kitchen; the clinking of a spoon against a mug echoed eerily in the quiet night. A few moments later, he entered the bedroom carrying a steaming glass of milk, the sweet vanilla-scented steam rising in a small cloud. He sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes filled with the same feigned concern that now made my skin crawl. He gently blew on the milk before holding it out to me, his voice a low sweet murmur.
“Here honey, drink some warm milk. It will help you sleep. I’ve seen how much you’ve been tossing and turning. You have such dark circles under your eyes. It breaks my heart to see you like this.”
I stared at the opaque white liquid, a terrible suspicion rising within me. Detective Beckett had warned me that he would choose the quietest method, and poison or a strong sedative was the most likely scenario for staging an accident. I fought to keep my racing heart in check and looked up at him, putting on a childish pouting tone.
“I don’t want to. Everything tastes bitter. It’s hard to swallow anything.”
Caspian patiently coaxed me, his hand stroking my hair in a gesture that was meant to be loving but felt sinister. “Come on, just a little bit. I added some honey to it. It’s good for your nerves. I promise you’ll have a good night’s sleep after this.”
A good night’s sleep or an eternal one, I thought, laughing bitterly to myself at the cruelty hidden beneath his sugary words. Knowing that refusing completely would arouse suspicion, I reluctantly took the glass. I brought it to my lips and took a tiny sip, letting the liquid pass over my tongue but holding a small amount in my mouth.
Then I pretended to choke, coughing violently. My hand trembled, spilling some of the milk onto the comforter. I quickly grabbed a tissue from the nightstand and spat the mouthful of milk into the crumpled paper.
“Between coughs,” I said in a hoarse voice, “See, I told you it was hard to drink. It tastes strange.”
Caspian quickly put the glass down and rubbed my back, a flash of frustration crossing his face before being replaced by his usual concerned mask. “Okay, okay. If you can’t drink it, don’t force yourself. Just lie down and rest. I’ll get a cloth to clean this up.”
The moment he turned and walked to the bathroom, I swiftly tore off the milk-soaked corner of the tissue, balled it up, and stuffed it deep into the pocket of my pajama pants. After Caspian had cleaned the spill and gone back to the living room, I locked the bedroom door and rushed into my private bathroom.
My hands shook as I took out the damp paper wad and a small drug testing kit that Detective Beckett had given me. I squeezed every last drop of milk from the paper onto the test strip, my heart pounding with every passing second. One minute, two minutes, then two distinct red lines appeared. My legs gave out, and I had to lean against the sink to keep from falling.
Positive for a high dose of benzodiazepines. He had drugged me. He wanted me in a death-like slumber, completely unable to fight back or perceive danger, so he could execute the next stage of his monstrous plan. I looked at my reflection in the mirror as tears streamed down my face. Even though I had prepared myself for this, holding the proof in my hands still felt like a knife twisting in my gut. The man I had once loved more than life itself was now methodically trying to kill me.
I wiped my tears, flushed the evidence down the toilet, and returned to bed.
The Gas Chamber
About 15 minutes after turning off the lights, I began to regulate my breathing, making it deep, even, and heavy as if I were in a drug-induced stupor. The room was pitch black save for the faint glow of a street lamp filtering through the curtains, casting eerie shadows on the wall. I lay perfectly still, all my senses on high alert.
I heard the soft shuffle of Caspian’s slippers outside my door. The doorknob turned silently, and the door creaked open just enough for a sliver of yellow light from the living room to slice through the darkness. I knew he was standing there watching me, checking to see if his poison had taken effect. I remained motionless, one arm hanging limply off the side of the bed. He stood there for what felt like an eternity before the door closed softly.
As soon as his footsteps receded towards the kitchen, my eyes snapped open. I grabbed the tablet hidden under my pillow and pulled the covers over my head to hide the screen’s light. On the infrared camera feed, Caspian’s form was a cold black and white spectre. He didn’t turn on the kitchen light, using only his phone’s flashlight as he moved like a ghost.
He went to the kitchen window and sealed the ventilation grate with a roll of duct tape, ensuring no air could escape. His actions were disturbingly precise. After sealing the room, he approached the gas stove. The camera in the range hood provided a clear view of his gloved hands. He used a thick cloth to grip the main gas valve and slowly, carefully turned it not all the way, but just enough for gas to leak out steadily, to slowly and silently fill the sealed apartment.
The faint hiss was audible through the tablet speaker, a sound of creeping death that made my scalp tingle. He stood there checking his watch, his lips moving as he calculated the time. He was creating a natural gas leak, the kind caused by faulty equipment or a forgetful, depressed wife, not a sudden suspicious release.
Once his work was done, Caspian turned off his flashlight and crept to the front door. He put on his shoes and coat and left. He needed a perfect alibi. The hallway camera, which Detective Beckett had gained access to, recorded him entering the elevator, looking calm, even nodding to a neighbor. He would go to a 24-hour diner or coffee shop, waiting for me to slowly suffocate at home.
The moment the front door clicked shut, I knew it was my time. I threw off the covers, all pretense of drowsiness gone. The sickeningly sweet smell of gas was already starting to fill the air. I knew I didn’t have much time; a single spark or the concentration of gas reaching a critical level and I would be dead.
I bolted from the bedroom, running through the dark apartment, a space I knew by heart. It was a race against death. I burst into the kitchen holding my breath. My trembling hands found the main valve and twisted it shut. The hissing stopped immediately. I ran to the windows and the balcony door, throwing them wide open. A blast of cold night air rushed in, a life-giving force that swept away the suffocating smell of death.
I leaned against the balcony railing, gasping for fresh air, my lungs burning. Once I had calmed down, I went back inside and confirmed that the video of Caspian tampering with the gas line had been safely uploaded to the cloud and a copy sent to Detective Beckett. This was the irrefutable proof, the sword of justice that would sever all his escape routes.
My phone vibrated. A text from Beckett: “He’s at the 24-hour diner two blocks away. Are you okay? Did you get the video?”
I replied: “I’m safe. Video secured. Now for the rest of the performance.”
