The rusted hinges on her medicine cabinet squealed.
But he wasn’t worried. She polished off two bottles tonight. An act of God couldn’t rouse her now.
He scanned the row of translucent amber pill bottles, settling on the small blue box at the far end. Where she kept her “happy little boys.”
The plan was foolish, but how many attempts at murder weren’t? He kept it simple though – swap out her trusty painkillers with something much stronger, blame someone else when she overdosed.
They believed him when he cried abuse.
Why wouldn’t they believe him when he proclaimed his innocence?
The Weekday One Hundred 