Chapter 1 - The Pillow Trap
By the time Margaret pressed the pillow over my face, I already knew two things.
First, she had pushed too far to stop now.
Second, Detective Mason had been right.
“Do you believe she’ll come back to finish the job?” he had asked me forty-eight hours earlier, after I finally told him the fall from my balcony was no accident.
“Yes,” I’d whispered from inside the rigid body cast that held my spine in place and kept me flat as a board.
So when Margaret locked my hospital-room door and came toward me with that awful little smile, I did not waste breath on begging. I waited.
“You should’ve died in that accident,” she whispered, leaning so close I could smell her powder and expensive perfume. “My son deserves another chance.”
Then she pressed the pillow down.
Darkness crowded in almost immediately. I couldn’t lift my arms. I couldn’t turn my head. I couldn’t even arch away. All I could do was count.
One.
Two.
Three.
At ten, I pushed the tiny emergency switch hidden inside the brace around my thumb.
The door flew open so hard it hit the wall.
Detectives rushed in. One grabbed Margaret. Another pulled the pillow away. I dragged in a ragged breath so violent it hurt every bone in my body.
Margaret was still shouting when they cuffed her.
“She’s lying! She’s unstable!”
Detective Mason ignored her. Another detective carefully bagged the pillow. A nurse checked my oxygen while I lay shaking and furious and alive.
I thought that was the end of the nightmare.
Then Mason set a worn manila folder on my blanket.
“Mrs. Morgan,” he said quietly, “before we question your husband, there’s something you need to know.”
He opened the file and slid out a photograph of a smiling woman in a yellow sundress.
“This is Emily Morgan.”
I stared at the name.
“I don’t know her.”
“No,” he said. “But she was married to Ethan before you.”
My blood turned cold.
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In the photo, Emily was standing in bright sunlight, one hand on the wrought-iron railing.
The exact same balcony I had fallen from.
