also suspicious expenses—restaurants, motel stays, chemical purchases.
At 7 p.m., he texted:
“We’re having dinner at home. Wear the necklace. I want you to look beautiful.”
The plan was set.
I would play along.
The police placed recording devices in the apartment.
The necklace was replaced with a safe replica.
When I walked into the dining room, everything looked perfect—candles, wine, white tablecloth.
Like an anniversary.
Like a lie.
His eyes went straight to my neck.
“You look beautiful,” he said.
There was no love in his voice.
Only relief.
Dinner dragged on.
Then he stepped into the kitchen, leaving his phone behind.
It vibrated.
A name appeared: Karen.
From the kitchen, I heard his voice:
“She’s wearing it.”
“Don’t worry.”
“She’ll sleep in it. Tomorrow it’ll look like an allergic reaction.”
“The insurance is ready.”
Everything inside me went cold.
This wasn’t suspicion anymore.
It was the truth.
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