Dates. Times. And every single entry was just a checkmark.

I scanned the pages, my hands shaking so hard I could barely hold the book. It went back years. Every single morning, 6:15 AM.

I kept flipping, searching for a note, an explanation, anything. I finally reached the very last page. The last entry was dated February 14th. The day he died.

Underneath the checkmark, in his small, precise handwriting, he had written a single line. It wasn’t a confession. It wasn’t an apology.

“She is starting to remember.”

I stood there in the middle of his office, the house dead quiet around me, and I realized I had no idea who I had been living with. I looked at my hands, the hands he had held every morning after I finished that glass of water.

I thought about the pills. If he was picking them up, where were they? Was he disposing of them? Was he replacing my medication with something else, or was he just keeping me sick? Or was he keeping me from knowing I was sick?

My phone buzzed on the desk. It was a notification from the bank. I had forgotten to check the accounts, but the lawyer had sent over the final balance. I opened the app, and the number was wrong. It was three times higher than it should have been. I clicked through the transaction history, and there, every three months, was a deposit. Not a withdrawal. A deposit.

He hadn’t just been picking up the medicine. He had been selling it.

I sat down in his chair, the leather cold against my legs. I started to cry, but it wasn’t the kind of crying you do for a dead husband. It was the kind of crying you do when you realize the person you trusted with your life was just a stranger who had been running a business out of your own medicine cabinet.

I looked at the ledger one more time. I saw a date from five years ago. I remembered that day. I had been dizzy, so dizzy I had to leave work early. Gene had picked me up, brought me home, and sat with me until I fell asleep. He had held my hand, told me everything would be fine, and brought me a glass of water.

I was so grateful for him. I told everyone how lucky I was.

I walked out to the kitchen and grabbed a glass from the cupboard. I filled it with water from the tap, just like he used to do. I held it up to the light. It looked clear. It looked safe. But now, all I could see was the reflection of a woman I didn’t recognize.

I still don’t know what he was giving me. I don’t know if he was keeping me stable or keeping me sedated. I don’t know why he stopped picking up the pills at the end, or if he just decided he didn’t need them anymore.

I called the police an hour ago. I didn’t know what else to do. They’re on their way, or so they said. I’m sitting here in the kitchen, waiting for the knock at the door, and I find myself looking at the clock on the stove.

It’s 6:10.

I’m terrified of what happens in five minutes. I’m terrified that I’m going to hear his footsteps, and I’m terrified that I won’t. The house is so still that I can hear the refrigerator humming, and it sounds like a heartbeat. My heartbeat.

I’m thinking about the water. I’m thinking about the pills. And I’m thinking about the fact that even now, even with him gone, I’m still waiting for him to walk through that door and tell me it’s time for my water.

I don’t know if I want to know the truth anymore. I think part of me wants to just put the ledger back in the box, lock it up, and pretend I never opened it. I think part of me wants to go back to being the woman who thought she had a perfect marriage.

But then I look at my swollen ankles. I feel the fluttering in my chest.

There’s a car pulling into the driveway now. The headlights are sweeping across the kitchen wall, bright and intrusive. I hear a door slam. It’s not Gene’s car, but it doesn’t matter.

I’m not the same person I was before the alarm went off. And honestly, I don’t think I ever will be. I’m just going to leave the ledger here on the table, right where he left it.

I wonder what they’re going to find when they start digging. I wonder how many other people were drinking the same water.

I hear footsteps on the porch. I think I’m going to go to the door. I think I’m going to tell them everything. But first, I think I’m just going to sit here for a second and try to breathe.

Because for the first time in twelve years, I’m finally awake. And I’m finally, truly alone.