My husband told us good night after p0isoning my son and me with a plate of chicken in green sauce, grabbed his phone, and murmured, “It’s done… soon they’ll both be gone.” And I, lying there on the floor, didn’t even dare take a breath.

She sounded pleased. “Finally, we’re free.”

His reply chilled me. “I’ve been waiting for this.”

Betrayal doesn’t scream. It waits quietly, smiling across the table.

That’s when I understood—Ryan was never meant to survive either. I heard drawers opening, metal sounds, then footsteps returning. A bag dragged across the floor.

“Goodbye,” he whispered.