Pills on the Nightstand

War required rest. Elena knew this. She also knew that if she swallowed the pill Marcus had pressed into her palm—a small, blue oval that promised oblivion—she might never wake up.

She waited until the click of the lock downstairs echoed through the ventilation shaft. Then she moved into the ensuite bathroom, running the tap to cover the sound of the pill hitting the bottom of the toilet bowl. She flushed it away.

She stripped off her clothes and stepped into the shower, turning the water to scalding. She needed the shock. She needed to wash off the feel of Marcus’s hands on her waist.

When she emerged, wrapped in a robe, she found the glass of water on her nightstand had been moved. Just an inch. The coaster was slightly askew.

Marcus had been in the room while she showered.

Elena picked up the glass. There was a faint, powdery residue on the rim. He hadn't trusted her to take the pill. He had dissolved a second one in her water.

She poured the water into the potted fern by the window. The soil drank it greedily.

Then she staged the scene. She messed up the bedsheets. She placed the empty glass on the nightstand, tipped on its side as if dropped by a sleepy hand. She lay down, forcing her body to go limp, her breathing to deepen into a slow, rhythmic simulation of sleep.

She waited.

Ten minutes. Twenty.

The door creaked.

Elena didn't twitch. She kept her eyes closed, focusing on the heavy, drugged rhythm of her breath. *In. Hold. Out.*

Footsteps on the carpet. Soft, but purposeful.

"Elena?" Marcus’s voice. A whisper.

She didn't respond.

He moved closer. She felt the dip of the mattress as he sat on the edge. His hand brushed her cheek, checking her temperature, or maybe checking for consciousness.

"She's out," he whispered. Not to her. To the doorway.

Another set of footsteps entered. Val.

"Did she take it?" Val’s voice was a harsh whisper, stripped of the sisterly warmth.

"Glass is empty," Marcus replied. "She's gone for at least six hours. We have time."

"Time for what?" Val asked, moving around the room. Elena heard the drawer of the dresser slide open. Val was going through her things. "I don't like this, Marc. She knows. The way she looked at me in the kitchen..."

"She suspects," Marcus corrected. "She doesn't know. There's a difference. Suspicion is paralyzing. Knowledge is dangerous. Right now, she's paralyzed."

"She's not paralyzed, she's drugged," Val muttered. The sound of jewelry rattling. Was she stealing Elena’s earrings? "We need to accelerate. The storm is peaking tonight. If the power goes out..."

"If the power goes out, the generator fails," Marcus finished. "Tragic mechanical error. The ventilator stops. We call 911, but the roads are blocked. It’s a clean story."

Elena’s heart slammed against her ribs so hard she was sure they could see it through the duvet. *The generator fails.* He had sabotaged it. He was planning to suffocate his own son while his wife lay drugged in the next room.

"And her?" Val asked. She was standing right next to the bed now. Elena could smell the stale smoke and cheap perfume.

"She wakes up to a tragedy," Marcus said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Grief-stricken mother. Maybe she blames herself for not checking the fuel. Maybe she has a breakdown. We get power of attorney over the estate to manage her care."

Val laughed softly. "You're a monster, babe."

"I'm a pragmatist," Marcus said. He stood up. "Let's go. We need to prep the breaker box before the wind gets worse."

He leaned down. His breath ghosted over Elena’s ear.

"Sleep tight, El," he whispered.

They left the room, closing the door with a soft click.

Elena counted to fifty. Then she opened her eyes.

The room was empty. The storm raged outside.

"Four hours," Marcus had said.

She sat up. She wasn't groggy. She wasn't paralyzed. She was wide awake, and she had four hours to save her son.