Chapter 1 - The Last Supper
For nearly fifteen years, I believed I knew the man I had married, from the way he folded his morning newspaper to the quiet, protective smile he gave me whenever our son said something funny. But one Thursday evening, after he prepared a beautiful dinner and watched our twelve-year-old boy and me eat every bite, I found myself lying on our kitchen floor, listening to him speak on the telephone in a voice I barely recognized.
“Everything went exactly as planned,” he said, his words cutting through the buzzing in my ears. “They won't be getting in our way much longer.”
I kept my eyes closed, although I was still aware of everything around me, and prayed that my son understood why I wasn't moving.
What happened during the next hour would change everything I thought I knew about my marriage, my family, and the ordinary life I had spent so many years trying to protect.
My name is Caroline Mercer, and until that evening, I would have described our family as comfortably ordinary—the kind of family that lived in a quiet neighborhood outside Columbus, Ohio, where neighbors exchanged Christmas cookies, children rode bicycles along the sidewalks, and most disagreements involved forgotten chores or whose turn it was to take out the trash.
My husband, Andrew, was forty-four and worked as a regional property consultant, a job that required frequent travel and occasional late-night telephone calls. I was a part-time elementary school librarian, and our son, Ethan, had recently turned twelve, an age when he was beginning to insist he didn't need his mother checking on him every five minutes, although he still liked having me nearby when he was worried about a school test.
Andrew had always been the better cook, but over the previous few months, he had rarely offered to prepare dinner, usually explaining that work had left him too tired to do much beyond sitting in his favorite chair and watching television.
That Thursday was different.
When I arrived home from the library just after five o'clock, I found him standing at the stove wearing the faded blue apron Ethan had given him for Father's Day, stirring a pan of creamy chicken and mushrooms while soft jazz music played from the kitchen speaker.
“What's the occasion?” I asked, setting my handbag beside the refrigerator and hanging my cardigan over the back of a chair.
Andrew turned and smiled, his expression entirely relaxed.
“Does a husband need a special reason to make dinner for his family?”
I laughed and kissed his cheek, noticing that he seemed unusually cheerful, almost relieved about something, although I assumed he had received good news at work.
Ethan came downstairs a few minutes later, complaining about a difficult science assignment, and Andrew listened patiently while placing three plates on the table, asking questions about school and even promising to help with the project over the weekend.
Looking back, I remember how carefully he watched us eat.
At the time, I thought he was simply waiting to hear whether we liked the meal.
“This is really good, Dad,” Ethan said, reaching for another piece of garlic bread.
Andrew nodded, pouring a glass of water for himself, though he had barely touched his own plate. “Glad you like it, buddy. Eat as much as you want.”
I had eaten only about half my serving when an unusual heaviness settled behind my eyes, followed by a sudden, violent wave of dizziness that made the kitchen lights appear strangely distant.
I put down my fork and reached for my water glass, my fingers trembling.
Across the table, Ethan was rubbing his forehead, his face pale under the overhead lighting.
“Mom, I feel weird,” he murmured, his voice slurred.
Before I could answer, his glass slipped from his fingers and struck the tile floor, shattering into dozens of sharp fragments.
May you like
I pushed back my chair, intending to reach him, but my legs would no longer support me, and I sank against the kitchen cabinet before sliding onto the cool floor.
The last thing I saw clearly before darkness threatened to swallow me was Andrew standing beside the table, looking down at us with an expression that seemed almost painfully calm.
