My hand was shaking.
I didn’t know what I expected to find.
Poison?
Medicine?
Some strange homemade alcohol?
Something that could explain why a man had guarded one bottle for three and a half decades?
I opened the cupboard.
Then I stopped.
I heard Victor moving upstairs.
I put the bottle back.
The next morning, he was gone.
Not dead.
Not missing.
Just gone for a doctor’s appointment.
And for some reason, I suddenly felt that I had been given an opportunity.
I took the bottle down.
I wrapped it carefully in a towel.
And I put it in my handbag.
I didn’t tell Victor.
I didn’t tell Emily.
I drove to a private laboratory across town.
At the reception desk, a woman asked what I wanted analyzed.
I hesitated.
“I don’t know exactly.”
She smiled politely.
“That’s fine. We can still test it.”
I handed her the bottle.
She looked at the label.
There wasn’t one.
“Do you know what it is?”
“No.”
“Who prepared it?”
“My husband.”
“How long have you been drinking it?”
I swallowed.
“Thirty-five years.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“Thirty-five?”
“Yes.”
She glanced at the bottle again.
“Does your husband know you’re having this tested?”
“No.”
