67. TESSA
TESSA
Eli walked up to me.
“Can you give us a minute?” I asked Blake.
He didn’t like my ex, that much was obvious, but after flashing a possessive glare at Eli, he pressed a kiss to my temple and nodded.
“I’ll be at the bar,” Blake said, reluctantly ambling off to give us space.
“Champagne?” Eli offered, somehow having materialized two flutes without me noticing.
I accepted one with a polite smile. “I didn’t realize you’d be coming today.”
“Sold a house to the groom’s mom.” He took a sip. “She was so appreciative that she offered me an invitation. Said she wanted to help me drum up business.”
“So, this was a business event for you too?”
“Passed out business cards,” he admitted with a sheepish grin. “Felt dirty, doing it.”
I laughed. “Don’t. I’m happy for you, Eli. Your career is really taking off.”
“Yours too,” he said, clinking his glass against mine. “Cheers.”
As I took a sip, I noted how the reception was winding down. The dance floor had thinned, leaving scattered couples swaying to the music. Through the windows, the city lights twinkled like warning signals I couldn’t quite read.
“So, it’s official,” Eli said, his voice taking on an edge I’d never heard before. “You chose him.”
I frowned. What a weird thing to say, given it had never been a competition.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out between us.”
“Don’t be.” He waved his hand dismissively, but his knuckles were white around the stem of his glass. “I’m happy for you, Tessa.”
The strain in his voice, the odd tension in his posture, told me he was still hurt. Of course he was.
“I’m sorry Blake accused you of trying to poison me,” I offered, trying to clear the air.
Eli’s laugh held no humor. “Can you imagine? Real estate agent by day, toxicology expert by night?”
Something niggled at the back of my mind, a warning I couldn’t quite grasp.
“Actually, turns out, I have something called MCAS.” I explained the diagnosis.
“Geez.” His eyebrows shot up, but something flickered in his eyes. “And here your boyfriend thought I was the one that got you sick that first time.”
First time? The words swirled around my mind, trying to decode his precise word choice, the peculiar emphasis.
“I was the one who took you to most of your appointments,” he continued, his voice softening to something almost wistful. “The one who tucked you into bed when you were feeling sick.”
“I’m grateful for everything you did.”
“I liked it,” he admitted, and the raw honesty in his voice chilled me.
Liked it? My symptoms haunted Blake. While, of course, he wanted to take care of me, he took no pleasure in it because it meant I was feeling awful.
I took an instinctive step back, my body recognizing the danger before my mind could process it. Red flags were screaming, even if I couldn’t pinpoint why.
“When we first got together, you were so strong, so independent. But after that first bout of bronchitis …” His eyes took on a faraway look. “You needed me. For the first time, you actually needed me.”
My eyes darted between his, horror dawning as pieces started clicking into place. The edges of my vision began to blur, and I looked down at my champagne flute with growing dread.
Meanwhile, his mouth curled up into a pitiful, victorious smile.
“I wasn’t trying to kill you,” he clarified, as if that made it better. “I just … I liked being needed. When you were sick, you let me take care of you. Let me be the strong one.”
The room started to tilt, preventing me from running off. All the while, my mind fought against this new reality because it didn’t fit.
Did it? Then again, I recalled the doctor telling me all the things that can trigger your mast cells. If medications could trigger them, then surely poisons could too.
“But I still kept getting sick after we broke up.” My voice was wobbly.
His smile turned proud. “You’re always trying to save money. That’s why you bought your tea bags in bulk. It wasn’t difficult to lace them with low doses of thallium.”
My stomach plunged to the ground, suddenly assaulted with nausea.
“It’s tasteless, slow-acting, with a nonlethal accumulation. By the time you started feeling sick, you wouldn’t connect it to your morning tea. And I only doctored some of the bags, scattered throughout the box. Just enough to keep you dependent, never enough to raise suspicion.”
The same box of tea I’d brought to Blake’s. The one sitting in his cabinet, untouched since my diagnosis, because the doctor worried about histamine reactions to certain foods.
“I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you.” His words came out like an accusation. “Taking care of you. Being your hero.”
“Blake …” Through my blurring vision, I saw him at the bar, his back to us as he talked to some man.
Eli stepped closer, his cologne, once so familiar, now suffocating.
“He’s about to suffer the same fate as you,” he growled, his facial expression finally matching the evilness in his actions.
“But don’t worry, Tessa. I took pity on you.
The poison I chose for you tonight is fast-acting.
” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I considered choosing an excruciating one. So, you should feel lucky.”
“How … how did you …” My tongue felt too heavy for words.
“Research poisons?” He caught me as I stumbled, pulling me against his chest like we were lovers sharing an intimate moment.
If Blake’s back wasn’t to me, he’d know something was wrong.
“It’s amazing what you can learn online.
Like how effective cyanide is. Symptoms begin almost immediately if a lethal dose is ingested because it blocks oxygen utilization at the cellular level, effectively causing internal suffocation.
Within thirty minutes, you’ll be dead. Oh, and the best part is that your hero boyfriend won’t be able to save you.
Even if he somehow survives what I have planned, which he won’t, rushing you to the emergency room won’t help. Want to know why?”
Eli pressed his lips to my ear, whispering like he was saying something sexy. “Cyanide requires a specific antidote to save you. But you’ll be dead long before he figures out which poison you ingested.”
He did that on purpose, I realized. Wanted to kill me in front of Blake, in a way where Blake would know I was dying and wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. Wouldn’t be able to diagnose it fast enough. All while slipping Blake poison too.
I tried to pull away, but my muscles had turned to water. Through dimming vision, I watched the man and Blake continue talking, unaware I was actively dying.
He shoved me away suddenly, and I felt myself falling. The edges of my vision went black, and as I crashed to the ground, one last coherent thought raced through my heart a second before everything went black.
I need to warn Blake.