A retired Mercer security director met us there before dawn.
She brought clothes.
A doctor came through a rear entrance and took blood samples from me.
That confused me.
“Why blood?”
Noah looked uncomfortable.
“You’ve been sick.”
“I’ve been stressed.”
“Heart palpitations.”
“Dizziness.”
“Headaches.”
“Exhaustion.”
I stared.
“How do you know all that?”
“You complain to me constantly.”
Fair.
Then Noah handed the doctor a small cosmetic bottle.
My night serum.
Adrian had given it to me for our anniversary.
Imported.
Ridiculously expensive.
I looked from the bottle to Noah.
“You tested this?”
“A preliminary sample.”
“And?”
The doctor interrupted.
“We don’t speculate before laboratory confirmation.”
Which meant something was wrong.
I sat down.
Every morning Adrian prepared breakfast when he was home.
He had become obsessed with making me “health drinks” after I started complaining about fatigue.
Vitamin powders.
Electrolyte drops.
Supplements.
He told me I worked too hard.
Told doctors I was under enormous stress.
Encouraged me to sleep more.
All while my body slowly stopped feeling like mine.
“You think he was making me sick.”
Noah didn’t answer.
