Chapter 2 - The Bitter Almond
The morning chill of late October pressed against the kitchen window of Morgan’s Oak Park apartment. The radiator clanked in the corner, a dull, metallic heartbeat that offered no comfort against the creeping dread pooling in her stomach. Julian was still asleep down the hall, his rhythmic, heavy snores drifting through the cracked bedroom door.
Morgan stood motionless in front of the lower corner cabinet. Her fingers hovered over the brass handle. Her chest felt hollow, like an abandoned well where fear had settled into stagnant water.
*It’s just an old woman’s rambling,* she told herself for the tenth time. *A lonely stranger on the Blue Line having an episode. Julian is selfish and financially irresponsible, but he isn’t a monster.*
Yet her pulse hammered violently in her ears.
She knelt on the cold linoleum, reached into the shadows behind the cast-iron Dutch oven, and pulled out the heavy tumbler.
She gasped, nearly dropping the glass.
The water was no longer clear. It had transformed into an opaque, oily liquid with a sickly milky-violet hue. Floating on the surface were translucent flakes—thin, synthetic film that had detached from the chain like molted skin.
Morgan leaned closer, squinting in the dim amber glow of the microwave clock. Beneath the peeling coating, the metal had not remained bright gold. It had corroded into a dull, leaden gray, pitted with microscopic pores.
And then the odor hit her.
It rose from the rim of the glass: sharp, chemically sterile, carrying the faint, unmistakable scent of crushed bitter almonds and sulfur.
Morgan staggered backward on her knees, covering her mouth and nose. Her breath hitched. As an accountant who handled logistics and inventory audits for commercial construction, she had handled OSHA safety data sheets for heavy chemicals, hazardous industrial binders, and solvents. She knew that scent.
Cyanide compounds. Or worse: a transdermal compound designed to be absorbed directly through the skin, disguised by a slow-dissolving synthetic wax binder.
*“When your husband gives you a necklace, don’t wear it.”*
The old woman’s voice resonated in her mind with the force of a church bell.
Had she worn that necklace, the gold chain would have rested directly against her carotid artery, warmed by her body heat, grinding into the sensitive skin of her neck for eight hours while she worked. A gradual absorption. A sudden cardiac arrest at her desk. An unexplained arrhythmia. A tragic sudden death of an overworked thirty-six-year-old woman.
“Morgan?”
The floorboard creaked in the hallway.
Panic surged through her veins like ice water. Julian was awake.
Morgan acted on raw adrenaline. Moving with silent, trembling speed, she dumped the contents of the glass into an empty plastic Mason jar she kept for sourdough starter, screwed the lid on airtight, and slipped it into her deep canvas work tote. She wiped the tumbler clean, filled it with fresh water from the tap, and set it on the drying rack just as the kitchen doorway darkened.
Julian stood there, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his hair disheveled. He was wearing his gray flannel pajama pants, his bare shoulders slightly hunched. For four years, she had found comfort in his presence. Now, looking at his familiar face, she saw only an unfathomable stranger.
“You’re up early,” he said, his voice husky with sleep. His gaze flicked instantly, deliberately, to her bare neck.
Morgan felt the hair on her arms stand up.
“Couldn't sleep,” she said, forcing her voice into its usual morning cadence. She turned her back to him, pretending to adjust the dial on the coffee maker so he wouldn’t see the terror swimming in her eyes. “Month-end billing is backing up at the firm. I need to get an early train.”
Julian walked toward her, his footsteps soft. He stopped directly behind her. She could smell his morning breath, mingled with the faint hint of mint mouthwash. Slowly, he placed his hands on her shoulders. Her entire body seized with the urge to scream and tear away, but she forced herself to remain loose, compliant.
“Where is it?” he asked quietly, his thumbs brushing lightly near her collarbone.
“Where’s what?”
“The necklace I gave you last night.” His voice was smooth, but there was an edge beneath the veneer—an impatient hunger that chilled her to the bone. “I thought you’d put it on first thing.”
“Oh,” Morgan chuckled softly, turning around with a rueful smile she didn't know she had the acting skill to produce. “I wanted to, Julian. Believe me, it’s stunning. But I was afraid I’d catch it on the scarf or ruin the clasp on the commute. You know how crowded the CTA gets in the morning. I left it on my jewelry tray. I’m saving it for our dinner date Friday night.”
Julian’s eyes narrowed slightly. He searched her face, his gaze searching for any hint of deceit. For three excruciating seconds, Morgan held her breath.
Then, the mask slipped back over his features. He smiled, kissing her forehead. His lips felt cold, like damp clay.
“Good idea,” he murmured. “It’s delicate. A piece like that deserves a special night.”
“I have to run,” Morgan said, grabbing her coat and her tote bag from the kitchen chair.
She practically flew out of the apartment, locking the deadbolt behind her. Only when she reached the street, surrounded by the rush-hour crowds hurrying toward the Oak Park Green Line station, did she let her lungs expand.
May you like
She wasn’t safe. Her home was an execution chamber, and the man she had loved was her prospective killer.
***
