I lay in our bed, forcing my breathing to stay slow and steady, my heart beating so loud I was sure Dererick could hear it from across the room. My eyes were barely cracked open, just enough to see him moving in the darkness. It was 2:17 a.m., and my husband was creeping around our bedroom, wearing latex gloves and carrying a small black bag I had never seen before.
Three hours earlier, I had done something that terrified me more than anything in my life. When Dererick handed me my nightly cup of chamomile tea—the same tea he had made for me every single night for the past month—I smiled and thanked him, just like always. But this time, when he went to brush his teeth, I poured every last drop down the bathroom sink and rinsed the cup clean. Then I climbed into bed and waited
