Page 109 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

“Remember Maryana Fipps?” I said.

Johnny’s expression sobered. Of course he would remember. He was the father of three daughters. Maryana was a sixth grader who was found strangled in a county park five years ago.

“Chief Vanderbergen—Van—was a detective with the sheriff’s department back then,” I said. “He questioned the parks worker who discovered the body—a young kid in his twenties. He kept contradicting himself and backpedaling on his story. Ten minutes into the interview Van tripped him up, and the kid fell apart. He broke down in tears and confessed right there at the crime scene.

“But there were no witnesses to the confession. No camera to record his statement. Van arrested him, the parkie lawyered up, and then he totally denied any connection to the crime. I was the prosecutor. That confession was all we had, and the defense tried to get it thrown out at the hearing.

“Van’s testimony saved the day, and the judge ruled in our favor. Then came the trial. The defense attorney kept Van on the stand for two days, tearing his testimony apart, trying to convince the jury that he was a publicity-hungry cop out to advance his career by railroading a poor, unsuspecting, churchgoing father of three into taking the fall for a crime that he didn’t commit. Then he pounded it home claiming that the sheriff’s department never even bothered to investigate any further after they went public with the bogus confession.”

“But the kid was found guilty,” Johnny said.

“Thanks to Van. He was a war hero, a decorated cop, a father, and a churchgoer himself, and he was so... so...nobleup there on the stand that the jury believed him. It was the most draining trial I’ve ever been part of, and knowing that we got justice for Maryana was an emotional high. The two of us cried with the family when it was over. That night, we all went out to celebrate, and...”

Johnny held up a hand. “Say no more. You had a few drinks, and one thing led to another. I’m familiar with the syndrome, Maggie. But that was five years ago. And the two of you are still at it?”

“Yes. I love him. He loves me. It goes deep, Johnny. He was nineteen when he got Sujin pregnant. He made a decision to marry her, because his nineteen-year-old brain told him that was the right thing to do. But it didn’t last, and they were divorced before we?—”

Johnny cut me off. “So the answer to my question is, ‘Yes, Johnny. We’re still at it.’”

“But we’ve been very careful,” I said. “Very discreet. At least I thought we had.”

“Discreet? The Maryana Fipps murder was a page-one case. Both your careers took off after the two of you landed that conviction. You’re not some midlevel assistant DA banging some anonymous beat cop. You’re the mayor, and Van is your goddam chief of police.”

“I know, but we’ve kept it professional. He calls me Madam Mayor. I call him Chief Vanderbergen. It’s completely under wraps. I kept it from you, from Misty, even from Lizzie. The only person who knows is my shrink.”

“And whoever Van told,” Johnny said.

“He wouldn’t. You might not like him, but give him credit for being smart. If it ever came out, it would ruin both of our lives.”

“Then how do you think Alex caught on?”

“I have no idea, but I’m sure that the minute he found out I was cheating, he was done with me forever.”

“Done with you forever is one thing, but poisoning you seems a little over the top. Has the man ever heard of divorce? It’s a lot less messy than murder.”

“You’re right. Anyone in his rational mind would take the legal way out of the marriage. But Alex can’t think rationally when he feels like someone he loves is abandoning him. On the outside he seems to be the stable grown-up head of a hospital, but inside he’s regressed to a little boy, asking himself the same question that has haunted him since childhood:Why wasn’t I loved enough?”

“Okay, let’s save the analysis for your shrink and cut to the chase. I’m still not buying your theory, but let’s just say your husband is planning to kill you. You dodged a bullet this time, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to quit. This plan of his—a phony disease, a slow-acting poison, no autopsy—that’s downright diabolical. You’re living with a madman, and he’s fixated on killing you. What the hell are we going to do about it?”

“I have no idea, Johnny!” I screamed. “That’s what I was going to ask you.”

“Hey, calm down,” he said. “Breathe. We’ve got this.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do. I’ve tried to play it out in my head, but nothing makes sense. I can’t confront him. He’ll deny it. I can’t call the police. Hi, this is Mayor Dunn. Would you mind swinging by the house and arresting my husband for attempted murder?”

“I get that. No cops. No divorce lawyers. That ship has sailed. But we better do something soon.”

“Like what?”

“First things first. Don’t eat or drink anything that anyone gives you. And I mean anyone—Alex, your assistant at work, your sister, your kids?—”

“My sister? My kids? Are you out of your mind?”

“Sorry. I think like a criminal. Trust no one. Don’t eat or drink anything you remotely think could have been tampered with. If you suspect anything, whatever you do, don’t eat it. Just get a sample, and I’ll take it to a lab.”

“Oh God, Johnny. I can’t believe this. I thought I was dying, and then I found out I’m not. And now I have to go home and wonder if my husband is going to murder me in my sleep.”

“He won’t. He’s too smart. He still thinks that the vitamin D is going to do the job, so he’s still going to keep on feeding it to you. You’re okay for now, but if you don’t die in a few weeks, he’s going to know you figured it out, and he’s going to come up with a whole new way of?—”

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