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It’s been a week, and every single time he goes to “work,” he comes back stinking of eau de slut.
If I came into my kitchen and smelled gas the way I do now, I would know not to use the oven and possibly to call the fire department. Noel wouldn’t know, though.
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We go through the same rigmarole of shackling my arms and legs, then patting me down. I barely even notice it.
“I love you so much, Talia,” he says in a voice that now sounds like his own. “I . . .”
It was him, like I suspected, but he has no interest in helping me get free. He knows what I tried to do to him, and this is my punishment.
“I didn’t do it.” My voice slurs on the words. “I didn’t kill my husband. I’m innocent.” Albert is quiet for a moment, his fingers frozen on the syringe that will paralyze my muscles. He exchanges looks with Rhea and then lets out a deep sigh. “Yes,” he says, “we know.” What?
