My hands are shaking but I manage.
“This is gorgeous. Nice job, babe.”
“Be right back with the coffee.”
I push down the Bodum slowly to strain the coffee.
My fingers shake harder as I turn the cap on the miniscule bottle of ketamine. I’m numb but trembling when I pour its contents into a large clear coffee cup and cover it with the fake non-alcoholic Irish Cream Liz made. The drug is bitter and needs coffee and sweetness to hide the flavor, according to Liz’s friend Phil who likes to do it every now and then. He’s a weird artsy guy who uses his need for a muse as a reason to experiment with drugs.
When the coffee pours in, the smell is Irish Cream and not any hint of drugs. But I add more cream and top with whipped cream just in case. I carry his coffee out and come back for my dessert.
I take several small breaths. My racing heart feels like it might explode any second.
When I calm down and take a seat, my stomach is in my throat.
He takes a bite and does the exact same thing as before. He moans and closes his eyes and nods. “Amazing.”
Yes, Rod. I’m a master chef. Now drink your coffee.
It’s as if he hears my thoughts. He lifts the coffee and takes a big drink. It isn’t too hot. He licks his lips and smiles. “Is that a new coffee? It’s a bit darker roast, eh? Bitter.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “Smells quite dark.” I take a massive bite of dessert and force myself to chew it, but my throat refuses to swallow.
This is too much.
I’m scared he’s going to overdose, though the dosing was done by someone who knows how much to take. I lied about needing Rod’s weight for our life insurance. After he weighed himself, I checked the scale for the last recorded weight and found he had told the truth. For once. So the dose should be accurate.
But if it isn’t and he overdoes, what then?
“I think we’ll go to Hawaii next year. What do you think of that? Try something new instead of Cancun?” he asks as he takes another big bite and washes it down with the coffee.
He doesn’t notice I don’t answer about Hawaii. I still haven’t swallowed the fucking cake.
“The whole missing phone thing is bugging me. I know I was loaded, but I swear to God I brought it back to the room. Someone stole it. That puts a bad taste in my mouth, ya know? We’ve been loyal patrons there for years and that’s how they treat me.”
He drinks more coffee until the clear mug is empty.
I think I’m having a heart attack.
“So I think Hawaii will be a nice change. The time difference will be annoying but not much different from Vegas.” He takes his last bite, and his plate is cleaned almost as well as his dinner plate.
I get up to take his plate when he glances at me and blinks. “I drank the whole bottle of wine, didn’t I?”
I nod, unable to answer with the cake still in my mouth.
“It was good but I’m feeling it.”
I grab the plates and hurry into the kitchen, spitting my mouthful into the garbage and rushing back out to him.
“You want to go sit in your chair and watch the news?” I offer him my arm, trying to hide the fact I’m heaving my breaths.
“I do.” He nods and tries to get up but he can’t. I lift, grunting under the weight of him. He’s an easy forty-five pounds overweight at two hundred and thirty. We stagger and I have to use strength I didn’t know I had to get him to the comfy chair. He flops in and mutters something I can’t comprehend.
“I’m going to hell,” I whisper.
He laughs.
I position him comfortably and wait the ten minutes, pretending to clean the dining room, but I’m watching him. It takes almost no time before he’s passed out and making whimpering noises.
I check his pulse but I can’t focus on counting.
He snores and I relax.
It worked.
I reach for his phone with unsteady fingers, again pressing to unlock it with his thumb. He moans a bit as I leave.
I open the garage door to Liz and a teenaged boy.
We don’t speak. It’s precision. And stressful. And creepily exhilarating.
Shit is wrong with me.
I hand Rod’s phone and mine to the boy. He’s skinny, maybe sixteen, and has the cliché geeky appearance I expected when Liz told me her neighbor kid was a computer genius who knew how to clone phones. I don’t want to know how that conversation started. She’s so weird.
He is with Rod’s phone and mine for eleven stress-filled minutes of me running into the living room and back out to the garage before the boy hands them back. He grins and holds out his hand. Liz places a hundred dollars in it, and he walks out of the garage, waving over his head. “Nice doing business with you, ladies.”
“That was easy,” I whisper.
“I know. Kids are way too damned smart.” She stares at the phone. “I can’t believe that turd installed the exact same app.”
“I can.” I hurry back into the living room to check on Rod. He is peacefully resting. I don’t know if he’s fully sleeping or not.
Then I hurry back to Liz who has opened his Facebook Messenger, a place I’ve checked before and found nothing—conversations with a bunch of guys and some old high school nonsense.
There’s a message from someone I didn’t notice before at the top of the list of contacts this time. A Lenny with an anime picture for his profile.
“That’s odd,” Liz says and opens the message and reads aloud, “Hi, Rod. Just wanted to let you know that the ring you ordered has been delivered and she loves it.” She clicks on the picture that follows.
It’s of a woman’s hand with a stunning pale turquoise stone set in a white-gold band with diamond braiding around it. The ring is gorgeous and resembles something you would get from Etsy but this is far more expensive.
“That’s her hand, isn’t it? This is her messaging him and talking about herself. They are sneaky.” Liz takes out her own phone and takes a picture. “To add to the file.”
“Okay,” I say with a sigh. The anxiety is wearing off and the realization that I’ve drugged my husband to catch him in his affair feels as icky as it should. My desperation has come to a low place. Bottomed out.
I almost wish I’d never heard of the app.
I would have left weeks ago instead of staging this.
But now I’m obsessed with outing them.
“You’re sure you want those texts to go to your phone? I suspect the pictures and such will get bad,” she says as she closes out the apps and turns off the phone.
“Yeah. I’ve prepared myself emotionally for this part. Brent had Elaine sign a prenuptial agreement. I’d like him to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt.”
“If she is caught cheating, she gets nothing? Damn, I didn’t know that. Brent’s going to love you for this,” Liz mutters.
“Also, I want to be able to look Rod in the face and show him I caught him. Otherwise, all this fancy footwork was for nothing. I don’t know why, but I need him to know I am smarter than he thinks.” I scowl, not enjoying this part of the story as much. It’s petty and I should be better than this. My drugged husband in the living room would suggest I am not. “I want him to know he didn’t fool me or make me believe I’m crazy or needing meds.”