«Tell my husband and mother-in-law that I died…

That night, after Margaret left and Sophie slept, James stood by the window, staring at the city. What if the plan wasn’t foolproof? What if someone suspected? Were there witnesses? He called Dr. Peters.
«Evening,» he said when Peters answered. «James Thompson. Just checking about my wife. It was definitely a heart attack?»
«Yes,» Peters said after a pause. «Acute heart failure from poisoning. I told you.»
«And the police? They didn’t ask questions?»
«No,» Peters said, voice odd. «Should they have?»
«No, no,» James said quickly. «Just making sure all formalities were followed.»
«Everything’s in order,» Peters said curtly. «I’m on duty.»

James hung up, a chill running down his spine. Peters sounded off—too formal, too detached. He shook his head, blaming fatigue and nerves.

In bed, Sophie slept curled up. Tomorrow, they’d shop for furniture, start a new life without Emma’s complaints. James closed his eyes. «Tomorrow. It’ll be fine.»

At 3 a.m., a knock woke him—soft but persistent. «Who’s there?» James mumbled, stumbling out of bed.
«It’s the neighbour. I need some salt,» a woman’s voice said.

James glanced at the clock and swore. Salt at this hour? He pulled on boxers and shuffled to the door. «Coming!»
«What the—» He opened the door, expecting a granny with a pan. Instead, two burly men in black uniforms marked «MET POLICE» stood there.
«James Thompson?» one asked.
«Y-yes,» James stammered, legs buckling.
«You’re under arrest for attempted murder and fraud,» the officer said, grabbing him, spinning him, and pinning him to the wall.

«What’s happening?» Sophie’s scared voice came from the bedroom. «James!»
«Stay where you are, miss!» the second officer ordered. «You’re detained pending investigation.»

More people entered—plainclothes officers with folders and cases. A tall man with a military stance approached James, now handcuffed.
«Captain Morris, Serious Crimes Unit,» he said. «We have a warrant for your arrest and to search the premises.»
«For what?» James croaked. «I didn’t do anything.»
«Really?» Morris smirked. «Your wife, Emma Jane, says otherwise.»

«My wife’s dead!» James shouted, sweat beading. «This is a mistake.»
«No mistake, Mr. Thompson,» Morris said, nodding to the corridor. «Your wife’s alive and eager to chat, but that’ll wait for trial.»

A figure appeared in the doorway, and James’s knees buckled. Emma—alive, pale, but resolute—stared at him with disgust and triumph.
«Hello, James,» she said. «Surprised?»
«This… this can’t be,» he muttered. «You died.»
«The doctor said what I asked him to,» Emma replied. «And he called the police. Unlike you, he’s decent.»

James sagged in the officers’ grip. The plan had collapsed.
«Take him away,» Morris ordered. «And call Margaret Thompson. Time for her visit.»

As they led him out, James saw Sophie’s tear-streaked face, bewildered. «I didn’t know,» she repeated. «I swear, I thought she had a heart attack.»

For the first time, James felt real guilt. Sophie was innocent, just a pawn in his and his mother’s game. But it was too late…