AllFreeNovel
Share Us
The next dose ought to give her a whopping case of hypoglycemia.
Such a shame.
Yet a distraught, grieving, diabetic widow could make mistakes with medication—and judgment. Like mixing up her fast-acting and basal insulin, and forgetting she’d already given herself one injection.
Especially after downing two prescription sleeping pills. Even if she’d needed a bit of convincing to swallow them.
My concealed carry permit had proven to be quite useful. Again.
She began to writhe with more energy, and I straddled her legs. Yanked up the bottom of her tank top. Clamped one hand against her shoulder to hold her in place as I plunged the syringe into her abdomen and injected the insulin. Pulled out the needle.
As she whimpered again, I stood and transferred the waste can from the other side of the bed to the front of the skirted nightstand, close to where she lay. Then I plucked a tissue from the box on the small table. Wadded it into a ball. Dropped it into the half-full can. Repeated the process over and over.
The tissues would provide excellent kindling.
A few other flammable items wouldn’t hurt, though. Like the magazines on the dresser.
I gathered them up, reading the titles as I returned to the bed. Snorted. Every one was crammed with self-help psychobabble. However, they did provide more evidence she wasn’t herself, which was useful.
After dropping three of them into the waste can, I added more tissues. Scattered the rest of the magazines on the bed.
Now for the accelerant.
I bent and rooted through my gym bag. Pulled out a bottle of hand sanitizer, opened it, and saturated the paper in thewaste can, as well as the edge of the comforter. When the bottle was half empty, I tossed it in the trash, tucked the bottom of the table skirt into the can, and checked on Pookie.
What a gag-worthy, insipid name.
Her eyelids had drifted closed, and she’d stopped thrashing.
It was possible she was already unconscious.
After I finished the setup, I’d verify that.
I moved to the window beside the bed, reached behind the blinds, flipped the lock, and raised the sash several inches. Nothing would seem amiss about an open window, not with the pleasant spring temperatures St. Louis had enjoyed over the past few days. After being confined during the endless, cold winter, everyone liked fresh air.
So did fire.
It thrived on oxygen.
I secured the long, filmy curtain to the table drape with liquid stitch. While the breeze from the open window should be sufficient to blow it into the flames—and that would be the obvious conclusion later—why take chances?
Next, I detoured to the foyer to get the partially unwrapped gift that had been my entrée tonight.
Back in the bedroom, I pulled the scented pillar candle from the festive paper, set it on the bedside table, and flicked a lighter against the wick. Within a few seconds, the scent of orange blossoms began to waft through the room.
Very pleasant.
I ought to get one of these for my own house.
Wadding up the wrapping paper, I angled toward the bed and assessed Pookie.
She was limp and pale, her breathing shallow but even. Hard to fake if you were stressed.
But just to confirm she’d slipped into a coma, I unhooked the safety pin brought for this very purpose from my shirt. Pricked her forehead.
No response.
I jabbed the point into her lower lip.
