My husband made dinner that night, and seconds after my son and I finished eating, we collapsed. I forced myself to lie still as if unconscious, and that’s when I heard him whisper on the phone, “It’s done. They’ll both be gone soon.”

She won’t leave. She keeps trying to fix the marriage.

If she’s gone, there’s no divorce fight. No custody fight.

What about the kid?

He can’t stay. He keeps her grounded.

I read the words again and again until they blurred.

“He’s been planning this for a long time,” Detective Hayes said. “And we’re going to make sure he never hurts anyone again.”

The days after that became a haze of hospital treatment, police interviews, and truths I could barely carry.

I kept seeing that photo in my mind. Caleb and me inside our own home, unaware that Marcus had been outside, watching us through the glass.

How had I missed it?

How had I slept beside him? Shared meals with him? Let him kiss our son goodnight?

The trial began two weeks later.

I sat in the courtroom with my hands locked tightly in my lap while the prosecution presented everything. The poison research. The fake identities. The prepaid phones. The notebook. The messages to Rachel. The photo through the window.

Then they called me to the stand.

For a moment, I wasn’t sure I could stand.

But I looked at Caleb, sitting safely beside a victim advocate, and I forced myself to rise.

I took the oath.