He never ate any himself. At first, I didn’t think much of it. But after a few days, I noticed that my slice sometimes tasted
different. One day, it was more bitter than usual. Another day, it had a strange metallic taste.
“Are you adding something to it?” I asked.
Victor froze for a moment.
“No.”
His answer came far too quickly.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the tension on his face and wondering why he insisted that I be the only
one to eat the pie.
The following week, I began feeling weak. Sometimes I became dizzy. I felt nauseous in the mornings, and my vision
occasionally went dark while I was at work. When I told Victor, he seemed strangely relieved.
“That was expected,” he whispered.
“What was expected?”
“I told you not to worry.”
That was the first time I became genuinely afraid of him.
