The opportunity came two days later. Aaron had a board meeting for a medical charity he supported—a commitment that would keep him occupied for most of the afternoon.

  "I can skip it if you'd rather not be alone," he'd offered that morning over breakfast, studying her face with that new intensity that made Elise's skin crawl.

  "Don't be silly," she'd replied, careful to keep her tone light. "I'm fine. I thought I'd call Claire, maybe meet her for lunch."

  Aaron had seemed pleased by this suggestion. "That's a great idea. You haven't seen her since the funeral. It'll be good for you to get out."

  The easy acceptance confirmed what Elise had already suspected—Aaron was monitoring her closely but hadn't yet realized she was actively resisting his control. He still believed she was taking her medication, still thought her compliant and confused.

  She'd maintained the charade carefully, pretending to swallow her pills while secretly flushing them, eating just enough of the meals he prepared to avoid suspicion. She'd even feigned episodes of confusion, asking questions she already knew the answers to, appearing disoriented at times.

  All to buy herself time and freedom—the freedom she now used to drive to Portland First National Bank, Lena's key burning a hole in her pocket.

  The safety deposit vault was located in the basement of the bank, a sterile room with walls lined with metal boxes of various sizes. A bored-looking attendant led Elise to box #247 after she presented the key and proper identification.

  "Take as much time as you need," the woman said, unlocking the outer door and sliding the metal box out. "Just press the buzzer when you're finished."

  As soon as the attendant left, Elise unlocked the box with trembling hands. Inside was a large manila envelope, unmarked and sealed. She opened it carefully and tipped the contents onto the small table provided for customers.

  What spilled out made her breath catch.

  Photographs. Dozens of them. Some were clearly taken with a telephoto lens—grainy, shot from a distance. Others were crisp and professional. And all of them featured Aaron.

  Aaron meeting with a man Elise didn't recognize in what appeared to be a parking garage.

  Aaron entering a pharmacy that wasn't their usual one, located in a town twenty miles away.

  Aaron at a bank that wasn't theirs, speaking with a teller.

  And most disturbingly, Aaron standing over Elise while she slept, a small vial in his hand, adding something to a glass of water on her nightstand.

  Bile rose in Elise's throat. The photo was dated just three weeks ago. She had no memory of it, no recollection of Aaron entering their bedroom with a mysterious vial. But there it was, undeniable proof of... something.

  Hands shaking, she turned to the other items in the envelope. A USB drive. A small recorder. And a thick folder labeled simply "Evidence."

  She opened the folder first. Inside were photocopies of what appeared to be medical records—not Elise's, but those of women she didn't know. Bridget Sullivan. Katherine Winters. And a third woman, Caroline Mitchell.

  Each file documented similar symptoms: headaches, confusion, memory lapses, weakness, dizziness. All three had been treated by the same doctor—Dr. Eric Bennett.

  Elise's blood ran cold. Dr. Bennett. Her supposed grief counselor. The man who had prescribed the medication Aaron insisted she take every night. He was connected to this somehow.

  Next was a stack of financial documents: bank statements showing regular withdrawals from an account she didn't recognize but that bore Aaron's name. Receipts for purchases at specialty chemical supply companies. A payment to a private laboratory for "testing services."

  And most damning of all, a death certificate for Bridget Sullivan, dated five years ago. Cause of death: apparent suicide by overdose of sleeping medication.

  With growing horror, Elise realized what she was looking at. A pattern. A method. The systematic poisoning and gaslighting of women, culminating in either their escape—like Katherine—or their death, like Bridget.

  Lena had uncovered it all. Had pieced together Aaron's history, his methods, his relationships with these other women. Had recognized what was happening to Elise because she'd seen it before.

  At the bottom of the pile was a handwritten letter from Lena, dated the day before her death.

  *Elise,*

  *If you're reading this, then I'm gone, and you've found your way to the truth without me. I'm so sorry I couldn't tell you directly. I tried, in my way, but I could see you weren't ready to hear it. And I was afraid that pushing too hard would only drive you further into his control.*

  *The evidence in this box speaks for itself. Aaron is slowly poisoning you, just as he did to Katherine Winters before you, and Bridget Sullivan before her. Dr. Bennett is his accomplice—they were roommates in medical school, and Bennett has been helping Aaron "treat" his victims for years. The medication he prescribes isn't for anxiety or depression—it's designed to make you compliant, confused, dependent.*

  *I don't know what Aaron's endgame is with you. With Bridget, it was her inheritance. With Katherine, it seemed to be the thrill of control. Whatever his motivation, he's dangerous, Elise. More dangerous than you can imagine.*

  *I've made copies of everything here. One set is with David, one with a lawyer who has instructions to contact the police if anything happens to me. I pray it hasn't come to that.*

  *If I'm still alive when you read this, call me immediately. If not... then know that I've tried my best to protect you, even if it cost me everything.*

  *Trust Claire—she knows some of this, though not all. She's been watching out for you too. Don't trust anyone else, especially not that so-called doctor.*

  *Get a blood test immediately, but go to a hospital in another town. Don't tell anyone where you're going. And whatever you do, don't confront Aaron until you're somewhere safe.*

  *I love you more than anything. You're stronger than you know.*

  *Lena*

  Tears streamed down Elise's face, blurring her vision. Lena had known. Had tried to save her. And had likely died for it.

  The thought that had been forming in the back of her mind since finding the journal now crystallized into certainty: Aaron had killed Lena. Had staged it as a suicide when she'd gotten too close to the truth.

  But why hadn't the police investigation uncovered any of this? Why had Detective Monroe accepted the suicide theory so readily?

  Then she remembered—Aaron had been with her at every meeting with the police. Had spoken for her most of the time. Had established himself as the grieving brother-in-law, supportive and concerned. And the police had seen what they expected to see: a depressed young woman who had taken her own life, and a devastated sister being cared for by her loving husband.

  With trembling hands, Elise reached for the small recorder. It was standard issue, the kind journalists used for interviews. She pressed play.

  Lena's voice filled the small room, quiet but determined.

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  "October 17th, dinner with Aaron at Marcello's. He thinks I want to discuss Elise's birthday surprise."

  Background noise—the clinking of glasses, murmured conversations of other diners. Then Aaron's voice, smooth and charming.

  "It's good to see you, Lena. Thanks for suggesting dinner. It's been too long since we've had a chance to talk, just the two of us."

  "I figured it was time," Lena replied, her tone carefully neutral. "Especially given how worried I've been about Elise lately."

  A pause. "Worried? Why would you be worried? She's doing well. The new medication has helped with her anxiety."

  "Has it? She seems... different. Distant. Confused sometimes."

  "That's just the grief process. Dr. Bennett says it's completely normal."

  "Ah yes, Dr. Bennett." Lena's voice took on an edge. "Your med school buddy. Convenient that he was available to counsel Elise."

  Another pause, longer this time. When Aaron spoke again, his tone had changed subtly. Cooler. More controlled.

  "What exactly are you implying, Lena?"

  "Nothing. Just making conversation." The sound of a glass being set down. "Tell me about Bridget Sullivan."

  The silence that followed was deafening. When Aaron spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper.

  "Where did you hear that name?"

  "Does it matter? I know about her, Aaron. And about Katherine. I know what you've been doing to Elise."

  "You don't know anything." His voice was still quiet, but with an undertone that sent chills down Elise's spine even through the recording. "You're making wild assumptions based on what? Some coincidences? The paranoid ramblings of a woman with her own mental health issues?"

  "Katherine isn't paranoid. And neither am I." The sound of paper rustling. "I have proof, Aaron. Bank statements. Medical records. Photographs of you adding something to Elise's drinks when she isn't looking."

  Another long silence.

  "What do you want?" Aaron finally asked. "Money? Is that it?"

  Lena laughed, a harsh sound devoid of humor. "I want you to leave my sister alone. I want you to get out of her life before you destroy her completely."

  "And if I refuse?"

  "Then I take everything I have to the police. To the medical board. To anyone who will listen."

  "No one will believe you." Aaron's voice was soft again, almost pitying. "You'll look like a jealous sister trying to break up a happy marriage. Especially when Elise herself denies everything. And she will, you know. She trusts me completely."

  "She won't when she sees the evidence."

  "Evidence can be... misinterpreted. Or it can disappear entirely."

  The threat was unmistakable.

  "I've made copies," Lena said quickly. "Multiple copies, stored in different locations. If anything happens to me—"

  "Don't be dramatic," Aaron interrupted, his tone suddenly warm, charming again. "Nothing's going to happen to you. We're family, Lena. I care about you. I care about Elise. Everything I've done has been for her benefit."

  "Poisoning her is for her benefit?" Lena's voice rose slightly, drawing a soft shushing sound from Aaron.

  "You don't understand. Elise needs structure, guidance. She's always been... fragile. Especially after your father died. I provide that stability."

  "By making her sick? By controlling her every move? That's not stability, Aaron. That's abuse."

  A long sigh. "I can see you've made up your mind about me. That's disappointing. I'd hoped we could reach an understanding."

  "The only understanding I'm interested in is you agreeing to leave Elise."

  "I'm afraid I can't do that." The sound of a chair scraping back. "Elise is my wife. My responsibility. And I take my responsibilities very seriously."

  "Is that a threat?"

  "Of course not. Simply a statement of fact." His voice turned solicitous. "You look pale, Lena. Are you feeling all right?"

  "I'm fine." But her voice had changed, become slightly slurred. "Just... tired suddenly."

  "Let me drive you home. You shouldn't be behind the wheel if you're not feeling well."

  "No... I'll call a cab." The sound of fumbling, as if Lena was trying to gather her things. "Don't touch me."

  "Don't be silly. We came to the restaurant together, remember? I picked you up at your apartment."

  But they hadn't. Lena had just said they were meeting at Marcello's.

  "That's... not right," Lena mumbled. "I drove myself. I..."

  "You're confused, Lena. It happens sometimes when you're under stress. Let me help you."

  The recording continued for another minute—the sounds of movement, Aaron speaking soothingly to someone, presumably a waiter or hostess. "My sister-in-law isn't feeling well. Too much wine, I'm afraid. I'll get her home safely."

  Then Lena's voice, distant now, as if the recorder was no longer close to her: "No... please... the drinks..."

  A clatter, as if the recorder had fallen to the floor. Muffled voices. Then nothing.

  Elise sat frozen, the recorder still playing silence into the sterile bank room. Aaron had drugged Lena at the restaurant. Had taken her somewhere. And hours later, she was dead in her apartment, an apparent suicide.

  The recording was the smoking gun—proof not just of Aaron's methods but of his direct involvement in Lena's death.

  With shaking hands, Elise gathered everything back into the envelope, including the recorder and USB drive. She couldn't leave any of it behind. She needed it all—for the police, for her own safety, for justice for Lena.

  As she prepared to signal the attendant, a final document caught her eye—a single sheet that had slipped under the table. She retrieved it, finding a detailed toxicology report. Not from the police investigation into Lena's death, but a private analysis Lena had commissioned weeks earlier.

  It was a chemical breakdown of a substance found in one of Elise's water bottles, which Lena had apparently taken from their home without Aaron's knowledge. The report identified trace amounts of several compounds, including one highlighted in red: scopolamine, commonly known as "devil's breath" for its ability to render victims compliant and amnesic.

  The final piece clicked into place. This was how Aaron was controlling her—not just with the pills from Dr. Bennett, but with regular doses of a drug that made her susceptible to suggestion and unable to form clear memories.

  The buzzer at her elbow seemed impossibly loud in the quiet room. Moments later, the attendant returned, eyebrows raised slightly at Elise's tear-streaked face.

  "All finished?"

  "Yes, thank you." Elise tucked the envelope securely into her purse, acutely aware that she was now carrying evidence that could send her husband to prison for the rest of his life—evidence that could get her killed if he discovered it.

  Outside, the autumn sunshine seemed too bright, too normal for the darkness she now carried within her. She checked her phone, finding three missed calls from Aaron and a text message:

  *Board meeting ended early. Heading home now. Where are you? Getting worried.*

  Her stomach clenched. Aaron was already home, already aware that she hadn't met Claire for lunch as she'd claimed. She needed to respond, to buy herself time.

  *Sorry! Phone was on silent. Still with Claire at the café. Be home soon. Love you.*

  The lie tasted bitter, but she needed to maintain the facade just a little longer. Long enough to figure out what to do with what she now knew.

  She couldn't go to the police directly—not when she had no idea who might be in Aaron's pocket. Not when he could so easily paint her as unstable, delusional, grief-stricken.

  She needed an ally. Someone who could help her make sense of the evidence, who could guide her next steps.

  Claire was the obvious choice, given Lena's letter. But reaching out to her would mean putting her friend in danger too.

  Her uncle David, then. Lena had trusted him with a copy of the evidence. He would know what to do, how to proceed safely.

  Decision made, Elise pulled out of the bank parking lot, her mind racing. She needed to create a plausible story for her absence, needed to continue playing the role of confused, compliant wife until she could escape Aaron's orbit entirely.

  But first, she had to hide the envelope. Aaron would certainly search her car, her purse, perhaps even her person when she returned home. She needed somewhere secure, somewhere he wouldn't think to look.

  She drove to a small storage facility on the outskirts of town, one they'd used briefly during their move to the Victorian house three years ago. Aaron had forgotten about it long ago—or at least, he'd never mentioned it. Using cash, she rented the smallest unit available, tucked the envelope into a waterproof bag, and locked it securely inside.

  The key she slipped into the lining of her shoe, a hiding place so obvious it might just work. Then she headed to the café where she'd told Aaron she was meeting Claire, bought a coffee to establish her presence, and texted her friend.

  *If Aaron asks, we had lunch today. Emergency. Will explain later.*

  Claire's response was immediate: *Of course. Everything OK?*

  *No. But I can't talk now. I'll call when I can.*

  Next, she called her uncle David's cell phone. It went straight to voicemail, as it had for the past week whenever she'd tried reaching him. Where was he? Lena's letter suggested he had a copy of the evidence, that he was another ally in this nightmare.

  "Uncle David, it's Elise. I need to talk to you urgently. It's about Lena. Please call me as soon as you get this."

  As she ended the call, another text from Aaron appeared:

  *Glad you're having fun. Take your time. I've prepared a special dinner for tonight. Our anniversary is next week, but I thought we'd celebrate early. Love you more.*

  The seemingly benign message sent ice through her veins. A special dinner. More opportunities for him to drug her, to keep her compliant and confused. She couldn't risk it. But how could she avoid it without raising suspicion?

  She needed time to think, to process all she'd learned, to formulate a plan. But time was the one thing she didn't have. Aaron was waiting, dinner was being prepared, and her absence was already stretching the limits of plausibility.

  As she drove home, Elise rehearsed her story. She'd been with Claire, lost track of time, didn't check her phone. Simple, believable. She would eat minimally at dinner, complaining of a large lunch. She would pretend to take her pill but dispose of it as she'd been doing. And tomorrow, she would find a way to contact Detective Monroe directly, away from Aaron's watchful eye.

  The Victorian house loomed ahead, its gabled roof and wraparound porch no longer charming but menacing in the late afternoon light. Aaron's car sat in the driveway, evidence that he was inside, waiting for her.

  Elise parked, took a deep breath, and checked her reflection in the rearview mirror. She looked pale, her eyes too wide, too knowing. She pinched her cheeks for color, practiced a smile that didn't reach her eyes but might fool someone who wasn't looking too closely.

  As she approached the front door, the smell of cooking wafted out—rich, savory, enticing. Her stomach growled despite herself. When was the last time she'd eaten properly? Days ago, before she'd begun to suspect everything Aaron prepared.

  "There you are!" Aaron appeared in the doorway, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel. His smile was warm, welcoming, utterly at odds with the monster she now knew him to be. "I was starting to worry."

  "Sorry," she said, stepping into the embrace he offered. Every cell in her body screamed to pull away, but she forced herself to relax against him. "Claire and I got to talking, and I lost track of time."

  "No problem at all." He kissed the top of her head, a gesture that once comforted her but now made her skin crawl. "I'm glad you had a good time. You deserve it."

  As they moved into the house together, his arm around her waist, Elise fought against the revulsion threatening to overwhelm her. She had to play her part. Had to pretend she didn't know that the man beside her had murdered her sister, was slowly poisoning her, had likely killed before and would kill again to protect his secrets.

  "Something smells amazing," she said, hanging her purse on the hook by the door—where he could easily search it later, finding nothing of importance.

  "Coq au vin. Your favorite." Aaron guided her toward the kitchen. "And a special bottle of wine I've been saving for our anniversary. I thought, why wait? Life's too short not to celebrate when we can."

  Life is too short. The irony of his words wasn't lost on Elise as she followed him, smiling and nodding as if everything was normal. As if she hadn't just discovered that her entire marriage was built on lies and manipulation. As if she wasn't sharing her home with a killer.

  On the kitchen counter stood the bottle of wine, already open to breathe. Beside it, two crystal glasses waited.

  "A toast," Aaron said, pouring the ruby liquid. "To us."

  Elise accepted the glass, raising it in response. "To us," she echoed, her voice steady despite the turmoil within.

  As she pretended to sip, her gaze fell on a small orange prescription bottle beside the sink. Her pills—or what she was supposed to believe were her pills. How many other substances had he mixed into them? How long had he been drugging her, controlling her, making her doubt her own mind?

  "I thought we'd eat in the dining room tonight," Aaron continued, oblivious to her inner turmoil. "Make it special."

  "Lovely," Elise murmured, setting down her glass carefully, ensuring that Aaron saw the level hadn't changed. "I'll just freshen up first, if that's all right."

  "Of course. Take your time. Dinner won't be ready for another thirty minutes or so."

  In the bathroom, Elise locked the door, turned on the faucet to mask any sounds, and promptly threw up. Her body rejected the horror, the betrayal, the knowledge that the man she'd trusted most in the world was systematically destroying her.

  When there was nothing left in her stomach, she rinsed her mouth, splashed cold water on her face, and stared at her reflection. In her eyes, she saw the ghost of Lena—the same determination, the same fierce protectiveness. Lena had died trying to save her. She wouldn't let that sacrifice be in vain.

  "I know the truth now," she whispered to her reflection. "And I'm going to make him pay."

  Downstairs, Aaron hummed as he prepared their "special" dinner, unaware that his carefully constructed world was about to unravel. Unaware that his wife was no longer the compliant, confused victim he believed her to be.

  Unaware that in her pocket was her phone, recording everything—every word, every action—just as Lena had done before her.

  The game had changed. And this time, Elise wasn't playing by his rules.