Chapter 8 - The Collapse
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My legs gave out completely. The heavy dining chair slipped away from beneath me, and I hit the hardwood floor hard, my shoulder taking the brunt of the impact.
I rolled onto my back. The massive crystal chandelier fractured into a dozen blinding, spinning white shapes above my head. My lungs absolutely refused to work; they felt as though they were filled with wet cement. My skin prickled with an unbearable, fiery heat as the severe allergic reaction ravaged my system. My hands clawed desperately at the expensive Persian rug, searching for anything stable, anything solid, anything that might remind my failing body how to pull in a single breath of air.
Suddenly, Graham threw his chair back and fell to his knees beside me.
“Evelyn!” he cried out, his voice pitched loud enough to echo in the large room. “Oh my God. Evelyn, what happened? What’s wrong?”
The theatrical performance was almost convincing. Almost.
His hands hovered anxiously above my chest and face, but he was incredibly careful not to actually touch me. His eyes darted nervously toward his tailored suit jacket draped over a nearby chair, then toward the mahogany sideboard, then finally toward his mother.
He knew the life-saving emergency injector was not there. He knew it because he had personally removed it from my purse and the medical cabinet that very morning. I had watched him do it on the hidden security feed.
“Find it!” Graham yelled, playing his role of the panicked husband perfectly. “Where is her pen? Where is it?”
Constance did not look at him. She remained seated, sipping her wine.
“Stop panicking, Graham,” she commanded sharply.
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My vision narrowed drastically into a dark tunnel. The elegant edges of the dining room faded to black. I heard Graham’s breathing become genuinely uneven as he watched me suffocate.
“Mother,” Graham said, and for the very first time that night, there was a tremor of genuine, pathetic fear in his voice. “This is too much. She's choking.”
