“Be quiet.”
His palm slammed against the wood, a dull, heavy thud that made Noah flinch. “Rachel, open this door. You’re making yourself sicker. Let me help you.”
The sickening irony of his words made my stomach heave, a brutal reminder of the chemical burning its way through my system. He had sat across from us at the dining table just an hour ago, watching us eat the chicken in green sauce, smiling as he spooned more onto our plates. It was only when I went to the kitchen for water and caught his muted conversation on the deck—“It’s done… soon you’ll both be gone”—that the sudden, violent cramps in my abdomen and Noah’s sudden vomiting made horrifying sense.
I had grabbed Noah, locked us in the master bathroom, and dialed 911.
