Her body had become conditioned to waking at 5am, so she was already up and out of bed a few seconds before the alarm.
Shower. Hairdryer. Suit. Make up. Her morning routine was so ingrained she could give herself over to muscle memory. Then, just as the sun was rising, she would half-walk, half-jog to the bakery across the street and buy a single croissant, still hot from the oven.
Back in her apartment, she arranged the croissant on a plate and placed a cup of coffee next to it. She positioned a spoon next to the cup, making sure everything was just so. Last, she added the poison.
She was out the front door as soon as she heard him stirring in the bedroom.
She’d started this tradition of leaving out breakfast for him six months ago. She wanted him to get used to it, so he wouldn’t be suspicious. It took a while for her to get the timing right—so that when he shuffled sleepily into the kitchen, the coffee would still be hot, but she would be gone. Gone, so he wouldn’t be able to read the lies on her face.
It was only later, after he had grown accustomed to this routine, that she started adding the poison. At first it was just a single drop, administered with an eyedropper she kept in her purse. Every few days, she increased the dosage. She was always a little nervous on those days—a little more anxious, a little shorter with her co-workers.
After all, it’s not like she was trying to kill him. Like most women, she had just always wanted see if she could make her husband immune to poison!
