Part 2: The Night That Raised Doubts
One night, Derek mentioned he would stay up late preparing something for friends.
“You go to sleep first,” he said with a smile.
I nodded, but something inside me felt unsettled. It wasn’t fear exactly—more like a quiet instinct I couldn’t ignore.
After a while, I got out of bed and walked silently toward the kitchen.
From the doorway, I watched as Derek prepared the familiar drink he had made for me every night. The same glass. The same ingredients.
But then, something unexpected happened.
He opened a drawer and took out a small glass vial.
Carefully, he added a few drops of a clear liquid into the drink before stirring it as usual.
Everything about his movements was calm, practiced—almost routine.
I stepped back quietly, my heart racing. When he came upstairs and handed me the glass, I forced myself to act normal.
“I’ll drink it in a bit,” I said.
He looked at me briefly—just long enough to make me uneasy—then placed the glass beside me and went to sleep.
That night, I made a decision.
Instead of drinking it, I carefully saved the contents and took it to a laboratory the next morning for analysis.
I didn’t accuse him. I didn’t confront him.
I needed facts.
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