Chapter 7
"Careful," she said, guiding me down from the toilet with a grip that would leave bruises. "You shouldn't climb things. You could fall and hurt yourself."
Her eyes never left mine. Searching, testing.
I kept my gaze empty, unfocused—letting it drift past her left shoulder as if I couldn't place exactly where she was. "Thank you. I'm so clumsy."
"Mmhm." She still hadn't let go of my wrist. "What were you reaching for, again?"
"My earring." The lie came easy. "I dropped it yesterday and heard it bounce. I thought maybe it landed up on the shelf."
"There's no shelf up there, Ivy. Just ceiling tiles."
I let confusion crease my forehead. "Oh. I thought... The echo made it sound..."
She released my wrist abruptly. "I'll look for it tomorrow. In the daylight." A pause loaded with meaning. "When I can actually see."
After she left, I didn't move for ten full minutes. My pulse hammered in my throat.
That night, I texted Mary: *She suspects. Move up the timeline if needed.*
Mary's reply: *I'm ready. Say the word.*
But it was Thursday night. The dinner was Saturday. I just needed to hold on.
Friday passed in agonizing tension. Serena watched me differently now—I could feel her eyes tracking me even when my own were "closed." She tested me constantly, moving objects and watching for my reaction.
She put a glass right at the edge of the counter—a trap. If I reached for it precisely, she'd know.
I reached three inches to the left, knocked it over, and flinched at the crash. "Oh! I'm sorry!"
She cleaned it up without a word.
At dinner, she served me risotto again. "Extra mushrooms tonight. Your favorite."
I took a bite—a real bite this time, because she was watching too closely for me to fake it. I'd taken activated charcoal tablets beforehand—not a perfect solution, but it would absorb some of the toxins.
"Delicious," I said, and took another bite.
Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "I added something special tonight. A new seasoning. Tell me if you can taste it."
My throat tightened, but I swallowed. "Mm. Is it saffron?"
"Close." She wiped her hands on her apron. "It's something... restorative. For your health."
That night, I vomited everything up in the bathroom with the shower running to mask the sound. My hands shook. My vision blurred—and not from emotion this time.
The edges of the room went soft, then dark.
No. No, no, no.
I splashed cold water on my face and blinked rapidly. The blurriness receded—slowly, reluctantly—but it receded.
Whatever she'd given me tonight was stronger than before. She was accelerating the timeline.
She knew. Maybe not for certain, but enough to act on it.
I couldn't wait until Saturday evening. I couldn't.
But I also couldn't move without those witnesses, without that room full of people, without the undeniable public spectacle that would make his money and his lawyers useless.
I needed tomorrow night.
I just had to survive until then.
Saturday morning, the stylist arrived. A young woman named Cleo who fussed over me with genuine warmth, completely unaware of the war happening beneath the surface.
"Your husband picked this dress for you," she said, holding up something I could see clearly—an emerald green gown that matched my eyes. The eyes he didn't know worked. "He said green was your color."
Of course he picked green. It was his way of being poetic—dressing his blind wife in the color of the eyes she could no longer use.
*Enjoy the irony while it lasts, Kieran.*
Cleo styled my hair up, exposing my neck—and the faint discoloration there from months of toxin buildup. She covered it with concealer without comment, though I caught her frown in the mirror.
By 6 PM, the house was transformed. Caterers moved through the kitchen—two of them were Detective Herrera's people—and flowers exploded from every surface.
Kieran appeared in a charcoal suit, smelling of expensive cologne. He cupped my face and kissed both eyelids. "You're breathtaking."
I smiled softly. "I wish I could see how you look."
"Trust me," he whispered against my ear, "tonight will be unforgettable."
*On that, we agree.*
Her eyes never left mine. Searching, testing.
I kept my gaze empty, unfocused—letting it drift past her left shoulder as if I couldn't place exactly where she was. "Thank you. I'm so clumsy."
"Mmhm." She still hadn't let go of my wrist. "What were you reaching for, again?"
"My earring." The lie came easy. "I dropped it yesterday and heard it bounce. I thought maybe it landed up on the shelf."
"There's no shelf up there, Ivy. Just ceiling tiles."
I let confusion crease my forehead. "Oh. I thought... The echo made it sound..."
She released my wrist abruptly. "I'll look for it tomorrow. In the daylight." A pause loaded with meaning. "When I can actually see."
After she left, I didn't move for ten full minutes. My pulse hammered in my throat.
That night, I texted Mary: *She suspects. Move up the timeline if needed.*
Mary's reply: *I'm ready. Say the word.*
But it was Thursday night. The dinner was Saturday. I just needed to hold on.
Friday passed in agonizing tension. Serena watched me differently now—I could feel her eyes tracking me even when my own were "closed." She tested me constantly, moving objects and watching for my reaction.
She put a glass right at the edge of the counter—a trap. If I reached for it precisely, she'd know.
I reached three inches to the left, knocked it over, and flinched at the crash. "Oh! I'm sorry!"
She cleaned it up without a word.
At dinner, she served me risotto again. "Extra mushrooms tonight. Your favorite."
I took a bite—a real bite this time, because she was watching too closely for me to fake it. I'd taken activated charcoal tablets beforehand—not a perfect solution, but it would absorb some of the toxins.
"Delicious," I said, and took another bite.
Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "I added something special tonight. A new seasoning. Tell me if you can taste it."
My throat tightened, but I swallowed. "Mm. Is it saffron?"
"Close." She wiped her hands on her apron. "It's something... restorative. For your health."
That night, I vomited everything up in the bathroom with the shower running to mask the sound. My hands shook. My vision blurred—and not from emotion this time.
The edges of the room went soft, then dark.
No. No, no, no.
I splashed cold water on my face and blinked rapidly. The blurriness receded—slowly, reluctantly—but it receded.
Whatever she'd given me tonight was stronger than before. She was accelerating the timeline.
She knew. Maybe not for certain, but enough to act on it.
I couldn't wait until Saturday evening. I couldn't.
But I also couldn't move without those witnesses, without that room full of people, without the undeniable public spectacle that would make his money and his lawyers useless.
I needed tomorrow night.
I just had to survive until then.
Saturday morning, the stylist arrived. A young woman named Cleo who fussed over me with genuine warmth, completely unaware of the war happening beneath the surface.
"Your husband picked this dress for you," she said, holding up something I could see clearly—an emerald green gown that matched my eyes. The eyes he didn't know worked. "He said green was your color."
Of course he picked green. It was his way of being poetic—dressing his blind wife in the color of the eyes she could no longer use.
*Enjoy the irony while it lasts, Kieran.*
Cleo styled my hair up, exposing my neck—and the faint discoloration there from months of toxin buildup. She covered it with concealer without comment, though I caught her frown in the mirror.
By 6 PM, the house was transformed. Caterers moved through the kitchen—two of them were Detective Herrera's people—and flowers exploded from every surface.
Kieran appeared in a charcoal suit, smelling of expensive cologne. He cupped my face and kissed both eyelids. "You're breathtaking."
I smiled softly. "I wish I could see how you look."
"Trust me," he whispered against my ear, "tonight will be unforgettable."
*On that, we agree.*