Page 69 of Don’t Tell Me How to Die

SIXTY-SEVEN

The mere mention of Misty’s father was the reality punch in the face that I needed. I had to stop thinking of Alex as the young medical student I fell in love with, the devoted father of my children, my soulmate for life.

One day Arnold Sinclair had also been that perfect package—the smiling would-you-like-starch-in-those-shirts neighborhood shopkeeper, surprising his daughter with a new car on her sixteenth birthday, and taking his family to Aspen for Christmas. And the next day he was a feral beast planning their execution.

Johnny drove me to the Heartstone train station parking lot. “Here’s your assignment,” he said, pulling his car alongside mine. “There are four things I want you to do. One—tell Alex you’re almost ready to go public with your blood disease, and pick a day about three weeks out.”

“What will that do?”

“He’s smart enough to know that your death will go smoother for him if he holds off until after everyone is braced for it,” he said. “If you set a reasonable date, he’ll wait. That will buy us time to figure out what the hell we’re doing next.”

“Did anyone ever tell you that you think like a criminal?”

“Thanks, Counselor. I was breastfed by a woman who did three years at the Albion Correctional Facility. It definitely gave me the edge over the kids whose moms didn’t rob, steal, or stab their boyfriends.”

“She sounds enchanting.”

“Here’s the second thing I want you to do,” he said. “We need rock-solid proof that Alex is the person pumping you full of vitamin D—something I can take to a lab. Can you do that?”

“It sounds easy enough.”

“Great. Three—find out how Alex knows about you and the chief.”

“Not so easy, but I’ll do my best. What’s the fourth one?”

“Don’t die.”

“That’s what my shrink said, but did you have to put it last on your list?”

He grinned. “You’re right. I probably should have said ‘not necessarily in that order.’”

I drove home, and I entered the house a completely different person than when I’d left that morning. I was now sleeping with the enemy.

That night I told Alex I’d decided to tell friends, coworkers, and family about my illness on September 11. He didn’t ask me to hurry up and do it sooner, so I figured he’d be willing to keep me around for a few more weeks.

The next morning Alex came bounding into the bedroom grinning like a kid who spent the night locked in a candy store. He had my morning cup of chai tea in his hand. “Room service,” he chirped.

The tea! The fucking tea! How could I have been so stupid? It was all I could do to keep from screaming. But one of the things I learned from working with undercover cops when I was at the DA’s office is how to preempt suspicion. If I had balked at the tea—even for a moment—Alex would go on alert.

I grabbed it like a junkie copping an eight ball. “Oh God, you’re a lifesaver,” I said. I took a big gulp, hoping it wouldn’t be the one that killed me.

Satisfied that I was enjoying his early morning offering, he kissed me goodbye and left for work.

As soon as he was out the door, I ran to the bathroom, stuck my finger down my throat, and vomited. I kept at it, dry heaving until my throat was sore. Then I transferred a few ounces of tea to one of the sterile containers Alex keeps in his home office.

Johnny took it to a lab in Jersey.

“It’s gonna be three days, kid,” he said. “Hang in there. Just keep acting like everything is normal. You know... happy, upbeat, loving your life.”

“Normal,” I repeated. “Happy, upbeat, loving my life—just like Arnold Sinclair’s wife did for the three days before he murdered her and her son in their beds.”