Chapter 3 - The Traitor in the Hallway
Less than an hour later, the quiet of the ICU corridor was shattered by the sound of hurried footsteps and loud, theatrical protests.
"Where is my wife?!" Tristan’s voice boomed through the hallway. "I demand to see her! She’s delirious! She has severe anxiety and ran off in the middle of the night without her medication!"
I stiffened in my hospital bed, terror spiking through my chest. Detective Vance motioned for me to stay silent, drawing a curtain halfway across the glass partition.
Through the sheer fabric, I watched Tristan march up to the nurses' station. He looked pristine in his crisp ironed shirt, his hair neatly combed, holding a bouquet of store-bought lilies. He was putting on the performance of a lifetime—the frantic, devoted husband heartbroken by his "unstable" wife’s reckless behavior.
Dr. Mensah stepped out of my room, blocking his path. "Mr. Miller. You need to lower your voice."
"Doctor! Thank God," Tristan gasped, squeezing his eyes shut to wring out fake tears. "My wife, Reese—she’s been suffering from severe fever-induced psychosis. She escaped our house in an Uber while I was asleep! She cut her foot days ago and refused to let me take her to urgent care. Is she alright?"
I gripped the bedsheets so tightly my knuckles turned white. The sheer, shameless villainy of his gaslighting was chilling. He was already building his defense: claiming I was crazy, that I had refused treatment, that I was responsible for my own decay.
"She is alive, Mr. Miller," Dr. Mensah said, her voice dropping into a chilling register. "No thanks to you."
Tristan’s emotional facade flickered for a fraction of a second, replaced by a cold, calculating glint in his eyes. "What is that supposed to mean? I did everything I could! I spent seven days nursing her—"
"Save it, Tristan," Detective Vance said, stepping out from behind the doorframe, flanked by two uniformed officers.
Tristan blinked, stepping back. "Who are you?"
"Detective Vance, LAPD. Tristan Miller, you are under arrest for attempted first-degree murder, domestic abuse by poisoning, and possession of a controlled biological agent."
Tristan’s jaw tightened. In an instant, the frantic, weeping husband vanished completely. His shoulders squared, his posture turned cold and regal, and a dark sneer curled his lips.
"This is ridiculous," Tristan scoffed as the officers seized his arms. "My wife had a medical emergency. You have zero proof of any wrongdoing. My legal team will have your badges for this."
"We took tissue samples, Tristan," Dr. Mensah interjected, stepping right into his face. "We found the synthetic pathogen. And we matched the microscopic residue on her heel to a high-pressure dermal applicator—the kind used in your company’s restricted labs."
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Tristan snapped his head toward the ICU room, his eyes piercing through the curtain, locking onto my silhouette. The mask was completely off now. The man I had shared a bed with for four years looked at me not with love, but with the cold, murderous fury of a predator whose prey had slipped from his jaws.
"You should have stayed in bed, Reese," he whispered, his voice low and toxic as the officers pulled him away in handcuffs. "You always were too stubborn for your own good."
