She turned and walked toward the stairs, pausing at the bottom to look back.
“Enjoy your freedom,” she said, and vanished up the hallway, leaving me alone with the echo of her footsteps and the bitter taste of my own plan turned upside down.
Aftermath
The police arrived later, called by a neighbor who heard the commotion. They took statements, examined the bathroom, and asked me to describe everything. I told them what I could, the laxative, the coffee, the text, the perfume. They took the bottle of laxative as evidence, sealed it in a bag.
When the officers left, the house felt empty, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. I walked through each room, touching the surfaces, feeling the coldness of the countertops, the smoothness of the wood grain. The kitchen table, where I had sat waiting, now seemed like a stage after the performance.
