The sealed bag from the freezer was the one thing Daniel had not accounted for.
When the nurse took it from my hand, the room changed. Daniel had spent the drive to the hospital repeating the same explanation: that I was exhausted, that I had probably mixed something up, that Noah and I had both simply reacted badly to dinner.
But there was one problem.
The food was still there.
The doctors did not need a story from him. They needed evidence.
And sitting under the bright hospital lights, with Noah beside me and a police officer waiting near the doorway, I watched Daniel realize that the evening he had planned was no longer following his script.
Earlier that night, everything had looked ordinary.
That was the part that stayed with me.
Nothing about the dinner table had looked dangerous.
The kitchen light was warm. The dishwasher was running. Noah had been telling me about a science project while Daniel moved between the stove and the counter, acting like any other husband preparing a family meal.
He even complained about the grocery store being crowded.
A normal complaint.
