Her mind was somewhere else now. Arthur began checking his watch with increasing frequency. The room felt charged, as if a Gulf storm were gathering just offshore.
Twenty minutes later, Genevieve started coughing.
It began as a small clearing of the throat, the kind anyone might ignore. Then it deepened into harsh spasms that shook her shoulders. Her face flushed, and the color drained strangely from her skin. She clutched the edge of the kitchen table.
“Something’s wrong,” she gasped. “I can’t breathe right.”
Arthur rushed to her side, concern flashing across his face. Whether it was real or simply well-played, I could not yet tell.
“Genevieve, what is happening? Are you having some kind of reaction?”
“Hospital,” she whispered. “I need a hospital.”
As we hurried to get her into the car, one thought kept repeating in my mind. That coffee had been meant for me.
Which meant my gracious daughter-in-law had just swallowed her own setup.
The drive to Mercy General felt like a scene from one of those hospital dramas that play late at night on cable. Genevieve’s breathing came fast and ragged. Arthur performed worry with flawless timing. I sat in the back seat watching both of them and trying not to let my face show what I was beginning to understand.
At the emergency room, the staff moved quickly. Within minutes, Genevieve was on a gurney, attached to monitors, surrounded by nurses taking vitals and asking rapid questions.
“When did the symptoms start?” Dr. Lena Sharma asked, clipboard in hand.
“About thirty minutes ago,” Arthur said. “She was fine this morning, and then suddenly she started coughing and couldn’t catch her breath.”
“Any allergies? Medications? Recent changes in diet or environment?”
“Nothing,” Arthur said smoothly. “She’s always been healthy.”
I watched him answer every question without hesitation. Either he was remarkably composed under stress, or he had imagined this scenario before.
“Mrs. Morrison,” Dr. Sharma said, leaning closer to Genevieve, “can you tell me what happened just before the symptoms started?”
Genevieve’s eyes found mine across the room.
“Coffee,” she whispered. “I was having coffee with her.”
Even in that weakened voice, the accusation was unmistakable.
Dr. Sharma followed her gaze to me. “Are you family?”
“I’m her mother-in-law,” I said. “We were having morning coffee when she started feeling unwell.”
“Did you drink the same coffee?”
“Similar,” I said carefully. “Genevieve prepared it. Two cups from the same pot.”
Dr. Sharma nodded and made a note. I could see her sorting through possibilities. An unexpected reaction. Contamination. Something more deliberate.
“We’re going to run blood tests,” she said. “In the meantime, let’s get oxygen on board and make her more comfortable.”
While the staff worked, Arthur turned to me. “Mom, I’m going to run home and get some of her things. Pajamas, medications, all that.”
“Of course, sweetheart,” I said. “Take your time.”
It struck me as odd how quickly he was willing to leave while his wife was supposedly in serious condition. Either he trusted the hospital completely, or he had something urgent to do elsewhere.
I sat in the waiting area under those unforgiving fluorescent lights, surrounded by plastic chairs, stale coffee, and old copies of Texas Monthly. Three hours later, Arthur returned carrying an overnight bag just as Dr. Sharma stepped out with the test results.
“We found traces of cyanide in her bloodstream,” she said with careful precision. “This appears to be deliberate poisoning. By law, I need to notify the authorities.”
The word landed hard in the air between us.
Cyanide.
Arthur’s face lost color. He gripped my arm as if for support.
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