Her New Husband 𝐏𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝 Her Drink On Their First DAY OUT | HO”

Lavell had a quiet voice and attentive eyes, the opposite of the loud, self-assured men she’d dated before. He said he was a lawyer at a small firm specializing in family law, and he talked about his work with the careful tone of someone used to being overlooked. He complained sometimes about low fees and scarce clients. Sherekica listened, nodded, and kept loving him anyway. Money had never been her main criterion in a relationship.

The drive home took almost an hour through evening traffic. When she parked and walked into her building, it was nearly 8:00 p.m. Lavell met her at the door with a glass of red wine, as if he’d been standing there waiting for the exact second the lock clicked.

“Rough day?” he asked, kissing her cheek.

“The usual.” Sherekica smiled tiredly and accepted the glass. “The Maritime deal is in its final stages. If it goes well, I’ll get a nice bonus.”

“That’s wonderful.” Lavell slipped an arm around her shoulders. “We should celebrate this weekend. How about Azure? I hear the food is amazing.”

Azure was one of the most expensive restaurants in Chicago. Sherekica knew, in the practical part of her mind, that he couldn’t casually afford it on his salary, but she also knew he was trying. She appreciated trying.

“Sounds great,” she said, lifting the glass. “I’ll make reservations for Saturday.”

She took a sip. The wine tasted normal—dry, familiar, comforting in the way routine can be. They ate dinner at home, watched a movie, and went to bed early. Sherekica felt a strange edge of anxiety underneath her exhaustion, but she blamed work stress and the pressure of closing a deal.

She didn’t know she’d just lived one of the last quiet nights of her life.

The hinge was simple: a glass of wine offered like love can also be offered like a test.

Friday morning started like any other. Sherekica woke at 6:30, showered, drank coffee, and kissed Lavell—still sleepy, still in bed—before leaving. She promised herself she’d get to the office early to prepare. Hampton Industries was already buzzing by 9:00 a.m., and Sherekica sat in her spacious office overlooking Lake Michigan, reviewing contract language with the sharp focus that had gotten her promoted faster than anyone expected.

There was a knock on the door. Tamika breezed in like she always did, bold enough to enter without waiting for permission.

“So,” Tamika said, perched on the edge of Sherekica’s desk, “how was your evening with Mr. Perfect?”

“Lavell isn’t perfect,” Sherekica replied, smiling. “He’s real. With him, I can be myself.”

Tamika raised an eyebrow. “I still think you rushed it. A year isn’t long.”

Sherekica shrugged. “A day is enough for some people.”

Tamika’s gaze dropped to the gold band, then back to Sherekica’s face. “You got that prenup, at least?”

“We have a prenup,” Sherekica said calmly. “I’m not naïve.”

“A prenup,” Tamika snorted. “How romantic.”

“Practical,” Sherekica corrected. “You know how I feel about money. I’ve worked too long to lose it.”

Their exchange was cut off when Sherekica’s secretary appeared in the doorway. “Miss Tmaine, there’s a call on line three. Mr. Johnson from Maritime.”

“Sorry,” Sherekica told Tamika, already reaching for the phone.

The call lasted almost an hour. When Sherekica hung up, she felt slightly dizzy, like she’d stood up too fast. She blamed it on caffeine. She asked her secretary for a double espresso and told herself to push through.

By noon, dizziness had deepened into nausea and a strange weakness that made her limbs feel heavy. During a lunch meeting, Marcus Hayes—her immediate supervisor—studied her face.

“You all right?” he asked. “You look pale. Maybe you should go home.”

“I’m fine,” Sherekica tried to smile. It didn’t hold. “Just tired.”

When the meeting ended and she stood, the room tilted. She grabbed the back of her chair to steady herself. Tamika was at her side instantly, worry replacing sarcasm.

“Sherek, you really don’t look good.”

“I just need to—” Sherekica began, but the sentence snapped in half.

A sudden, sharp pain gripped her midsection like a fist closing. Her breath caught. The world blurred. She tried to speak again and couldn’t. Her knees buckled.

“Sherekica!” Tamika screamed, and that sound was the last clear thing before everything went black.

Detective Jabari Dankworth parked his beat-up Ford outside the gleaming Hampton Industries tower and stared up at all that glass and confidence. His partner, Detective Shakira Washington, slammed her door and scowled.

“This is probably a simple cardiac arrest,” she muttered. “Why are we here?”

“Protocol,” Dankworth said. “Sudden death of a young woman at work. We rule out foul play before we call it nature.”

Twenty years on the Chicago Police Department had taught Dankworth not to trust the first explanation, especially the ones that made everyone comfortable. He was tall, broad, graying at the temples, with a face that looked like it had absorbed too many stories. Shakira was his opposite—young, sharp-tongued, impatient with anything that smelled like routine. They’d only been partnered six months, but they moved together like practiced gears.

A security guard escorted them to the 32nd floor. The body was already gone, but the office still felt like an interruption: yellow tape, forensic techs, a chalk outline on carpet beneath a sign that read SHEREKICA TMAINE, SENIOR SALES MANAGER.

“What do we have?” Dankworth asked a young officer near the door.

“Sherekica Tmaine, twenty-six,” the officer recited. “Worked here four years. Collapsed during a meeting. Paramedics pronounced her on scene. Preliminary cause: cardiac arrest. Witnesses: the whole department. Coworker Tamika Brooks attempted CPR.”

Dankworth stepped into the room and let the details speak. A water glass half-finished. Papers neatly stacked. A life paused in the middle of a sentence.

A voice behind him cracked. “Are you detectives?”

He turned to see a dark-skinned woman around thirty, eyes wet, shoulders held tight like she was trying not to fall apart.

“Yes,” Dankworth said, showing his badge. “Detective Jabari Dankworth. This is Detective Shakira Washington. You’re Tamika Brooks?”

Tamika nodded, swallowing hard. “I can’t believe this happened. She was healthy. No heart problems.”

“Were you here when it happened?” Washington asked, notebook out.

“Yeah. We were finishing a meeting. Sherekica didn’t look right all day but refused to go home. She’s stubborn.” Tamika’s voice wavered. “When she collapsed, I tried CPR. It was too late.”

Dankworth’s gaze stayed gentle but steady. “She was recently married.”

“Two weeks ago,” Tamika confirmed, and something bitter flashed through her grief. “Lavell Puit.”

“Do you know him?” Washington asked.

“Not really. She didn’t introduce us until right before the wedding.” Tamika shook her head. “He’s quiet. Polite to the point of being… too polished. I never understood what she saw in him.”

“Why not?” Washington pressed.

“Because Sherekica was bright, driven, and he was just… nothing.” Tamika wiped her cheek. “And she made way more money than him. Gold Coast apartment, Lexus, investments. He was living in a studio in Garfield Park before he married her.”

Dankworth stored that away like a key. “Any enemies? Anyone at work or outside who wished her harm?”

Tamika shook her head. “Everyone loved her. She was tough in business, but honest.” She hesitated. “She had an ex, Derek. But that ended a year ago.”

When they left the building after interviewing more employees—every statement matching the same rough outline—Washington exhaled.

“Sounds like a regular heart attack.”

“Maybe,” Dankworth said. “But we talk to the husband.”

Sherekica’s Gold Coast building looked like money made into architecture: marble floors, mirrored elevators, a concierge desk that treated grief like a disturbance. Lavell Puit opened the door on the third ring. He was tall, neatly trimmed beard, thin-rimmed glasses that cost more than they needed to. He held a coffee mug and his hands trembled slightly.

“Mr. Puit?” Dankworth asked.

“Yes?”

“Detective Jabari Dankworth, Chicago Police. This is Detective Washington. We need to speak with you.”

“Police?” Lavell blinked. “About what?”

“May we come in?” Washington asked.

Lavell stepped aside. The apartment was immaculate—minimalist gray-and-white furniture, framed prints, panoramic windows over the city. Photos on the wall showed Sherekica beaming on their wedding day, her smile wide enough to erase doubt. In every picture, Lavell looked reservedly pleased, as if happiness was something he borrowed instead of owned.

“Mr. Puit,” Dankworth began once they sat, “your wife passed away in her office today.”

The mug slipped from Lavell’s hands and shattered on the parquet floor. Coffee splashed across the light wood like a bruise spreading.

Lavell stared, mouth open, eyes wide. “Dead?” he whispered. “How? I saw her this morning. She was fine.”

“Preliminary report says cardiac arrest,” Dankworth said. “Did she complain of health issues?”

Lavell shook his head slowly. “No. She said she was tired sometimes, but nothing serious. She was healthy.” His voice cracked. “We’ve only been married two weeks.”

Washington’s tone softened. “We’re sorry. We need to ask questions. Standard procedure.”

“Okay,” Lavell said, covering his face with both hands. His shoulders trembled, but no sound came out.

“When was the last time you saw her?” Dankworth asked.

“This morning,” Lavell said, voice muffled. “She left around seven. Important meeting. I was going to make dinner tonight.”

Dankworth watched him carefully. “Enemies? Anyone who’d want to hurt her?”

“No,” Lavell said. “Everyone loved her. She had an ex—Derek something. But that was before me. He moved to Detroit.”

“Her parents?” Washington asked.

“Florida,” Lavell said, swallowing. “I don’t even know what to tell them.”

At the door, Lavell stopped them with a question that sounded almost too quick. “There’s going to be an autopsy, right?”

“Standard in sudden death,” Dankworth said.

Lavell nodded. “I just want to know why.”

As the door closed, Washington breathed out. “He looks genuinely shaken.”

“Maybe,” Dankworth said. “But I still want his morning verified. And I want that ex checked.”

The hinge tightened: when a man asks about an autopsy before he asks how to grieve, you remember the question.

The call came at 8:00 Saturday morning, just as Dankworth poured his first coffee. The medical examiner’s voice was clipped, urgent.

“Detective Dankworth? Dr. Obadiah Talbot. You need to come down here. We have an update on the Tmaine case.”

Dankworth didn’t argue. He called Washington. “Meet me at the morgue in thirty.”

Dr. Talbot met them with a folder and a look that didn’t belong on a man who’d spent two decades around death. “Detectives,” he said, “I got unexpected results.”

“It wasn’t a heart attack,” Dankworth said.

“Not exactly.” Talbot slid the report across the counter. “I found traces of tetrodotoxin in her blood.”

Washington frowned. “That’s…”

“Rare,” Talbot said. “Extremely dangerous. Colorless, odorless. A pinhead amount can stop the body’s signals from traveling the way they should. People can stay aware as their strength disappears.” He paused. “It’s not something you stumble into by accident.”

A gray Sunday morning greeted Chicago with drizzle, the city blurred behind wet windows like it couldn’t bear to look at itself. Dankworth stood at his office window holding coffee gone cold, reading the report again. Tetrodotoxin. Poison. The case was no longer protocol. Now it was homicide.

Washington walked in with a file. “Checked the ex-boyfriend, Derek Tubbs,” she said. “He’s in Detroit, been there eleven months. Alibi checked—coworkers and security footage. Nothing unusual in finances.”

Dankworth nodded slowly. “So not him.”

“Then who?” Washington asked, though she already knew.

“The husband.” Dankworth set the report down. “Motive and proximity.”

Washington flipped pages. “But they had a prenup.”

“Prenups govern divorce,” Dankworth said. “Death is a different door. If there’s no will, next of kin inherits.”

Washington sat on the table edge, eyes narrowing. “What did she have?”

Dankworth didn’t look away. “Gold Coast apartment—about $800,000. Lexus—$50,000. Investments around $300,000. Company life insurance—$500,000.”

Washington did the math aloud. “That’s $1.65 million.”

“About a million and a half,” Dankworth said. “Not bad for a struggling lawyer.”

Washington’s mouth tightened. “How does a family-law attorney get a poison like that?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out.” Dankworth grabbed his jacket. “Let’s go see our grieving widower.”

The wind off the lake cut harder that day, the kind of cold that made you angry at the sky. Lavell sat on the couch when they arrived, staring at an untouched cup of coffee like he’d been waiting for it to speak. He opened the door slowly, eyes red, stubble along his jaw.

“I was about to call you,” he said. “The morgue told me. They said Sherekica was poisoned.”

Dankworth exchanged a look with Washington. He hadn’t expected results to reach Lavell so fast.

“Who did you talk to?” Dankworth asked.

“An administrator,” Lavell said, sinking onto the couch. “He said it was… tetro something. Who would do that to her?”

“That’s what we’re here to determine,” Washington said. “We need to go over your timeline.”

“Anything,” Lavell said quickly. “Ask.”

“Thursday night and Friday morning,” Dankworth said. “Where were you?”

“Thursday night, we were home. Dinner, movie, bed around eleven.” Lavell rubbed his face. “Friday morning she left around seven. I stayed home until noon, worked remotely, then went to the office.”

“Can anyone confirm you were home Friday morning?” Washington asked.

Lavell frowned. “No. I was alone. But I sent emails.”

“We’ll verify,” Dankworth said. “When did you last eat out together?”

Lavell thought. “Last Sunday. Breakfast at Morning Dew Café on Michigan Avenue. And Thursday night—Azure.”

Washington’s brows rose. “Azure. That’s expensive.”

Lavell’s smile was thin. “I wanted to do something nice. She’d had a big week.”

“What did you eat?” Dankworth asked.

“Steak,” Lavell said. “She had… seafood. A platter.”

“Did you leave the table at any point?” Washington asked.

“Once,” Lavell admitted. “Restroom.”

“Before or after food arrived?” Dankworth asked.

“After.”

Washington leaned forward. “So you came back while her plate was there.”

“I didn’t touch her food,” Lavell snapped, sudden sharpness cutting through grief.

“We’re considering all possibilities,” Dankworth said evenly. “Mind if we look around the apartment?”

Lavell blinked. “Why?”

“Standard procedure,” Washington said. “Packages, substances, anything that could explain how poison entered her life.”

Lavell hesitated, then nodded. “Fine. If it helps find who did this.”

They split up. Washington stayed with Lavell in the living room, asking questions with a steady voice. Dankworth moved through the bedroom, bathroom, then into the kitchen.

Everything was spotless, organized like a showroom. Cabinets held perfectly aligned dishes. The fridge had receipts pinned under magnets. On the counter, a bowl of fruit arranged like it was waiting for a camera.

Dankworth opened an upper cabinet and paused. Among labeled spices sat a small unlabeled glass jar of white powder that could have been salt. He lifted it carefully, opened it, and smelled nothing.

He poured a small sample into an evidence envelope, sealed it, returned the jar to the cabinet exactly where it was.

His eyes caught another detail on the fridge: a drugstore receipt dated three weeks earlier, listing aspirin, bandages, antiseptic, and a “special mix prescribed by a doctor.” Strange for someone to keep a receipt like that unless it mattered.

He crossed into a small room used as a home office. Legal files covered the desk—divorces, custody disputes, settlement drafts. On a shelf sat books on toxicology and pharmacology. Not illegal, not proof, but odd for family law.

He opened a bottom drawer and found a small box. Inside were vials of liquids, tiny bags of powders, each labeled in handwriting too quick to read from a glance.

At that moment, Lavell appeared in the doorway.

“Find anything useful?” he asked, voice too even.

Dankworth straightened slowly, holding the box. “Mr. Puit, what are these?”

Lavell froze, eyes flicking from the box to Dankworth’s face. “It’s—uh—it’s a hobby. Chemistry. Home experiments.”

“Chemistry is an unusual hobby for a family-law attorney,” Dankworth said.

Lavell tried to smile. It came out wrong. “Everybody’s got oddities.”

“You mind if our experts test these?” Dankworth asked. “To rule out anything connected to your wife’s death.”

Lavell’s posture tightened. “I’d rather you didn’t touch my property without a warrant.”

Dankworth took a step toward him. “Your wife was poisoned with a rare toxin. We found unlabeled substances in your home office. Do you understand how this looks?”

“I loved Sherekica,” Lavell said, and for a moment the words sounded rehearsed.

“Then you won’t mind a test,” Dankworth replied.

Lavell’s eyes darted. “I need to think. Consult a lawyer.”

“You are a lawyer,” Dankworth said.

“Family law,” Lavell snapped. “Not criminal. I need to make a phone call.”

He turned and left abruptly.

A second later, the front door slammed.

“Shit,” Dankworth breathed, and he was moving before the word finished. Washington met him in the hall, eyes wide.

“What happened?”

“He bolted,” Dankworth said. “Call patrol.”

Washington was already on her radio. Dankworth ran for the stairs. Twenty flights down became a blur of pounding steps and hard breathing. Outside, Sunday moved on like it didn’t know a life had just been stolen: dog walkers, joggers, couples with coffee.

“There,” Washington shouted, pointing. A man in a gray sweater moved fast toward the park.

Dankworth sprinted. Lavell glanced back, saw them, and ran harder. He cut between buildings, turned corners, tried to vanish into the city.

“He’s aiming for the subway,” Dankworth panted.

“I’ll cut him off,” Washington said, peeling right.

The chase spilled into a small square. Lavell reached the far end and stopped short when Washington stepped into his path. Dankworth closed from behind.

“Lavell Puit!” Dankworth shouted. “Chicago police. Stop.”

Lavell raised his hands, breathing hard. “I’m unarmed. Don’t shoot.”

Dankworth cuffed him quickly. “Lavell Puit, you’re under arrest on suspicion of the murder of Sherekica Tmaine. You have the right to remain silent…”

Lavell didn’t resist. His shoulders sagged. “I didn’t kill her,” he said quietly. “You’re making a mistake.”

Washington’s eyes cut sharp. “Then why run?”

Lavell stared at the ground and said nothing.

The hinge snapped into place: innocent people fight questions; guilty people flee answers.

In the interrogation room, the air felt colder than it needed to be—bare walls, a metal table bolted down, three chairs that had heard too many confessions. Lavell sat with his head lowered. A glass of water sat untouched in front of him, clear and accusing.

Dankworth entered with a folder. Washington stayed against the wall, arms crossed, watching.

“Mr. Puit,” Dankworth said, laying the papers down, “let’s talk about why you ran.”

Lavell looked up. “I panicked. When you found my chemicals, I knew you’d think I did it.”

“And you didn’t?” Dankworth asked.

“No.” Lavell slammed his fist on the table. “I loved her. Why would I kill her?”

Washington’s voice stayed flat. “About $1.5 million is one reason.”

Lavell blinked, genuinely startled. “What?”

Dankworth listed it calmly: “Gold Coast apartment. Lexus. Investments. Company life insurance.”

Lavell shook his head. “I didn’t know about insurance. And we had a prenup. Everything belonged to Sherekica.”

“Prenups govern divorce,” Dankworth said. “Not death. As next of kin, you inherit if there’s no will.”

Lavell went quiet, absorbing that like it was the first time he’d heard it, or the first time he was caught holding it.

Dankworth pulled out a photo of the white powder. “What is this?”

Lavell squinted. “Borax. For crystals.”

“Our lab will confirm,” Dankworth said, sliding the photo aside. He held up the drugstore receipt. “And this ‘special doctor’s mix’ from three weeks ago?”

“Medicine,” Lavell said quickly. “Sherekica had allergies. Special antihistamine.”

“Where is it now?” Washington asked.

“I don’t know,” Lavell said. “In her purse. Makeup bag. Somewhere.”

Dankworth turned a page. “Thursday night. Dinner at Azure.”

“Yes,” Lavell said.

“Who ordered the food?”

“We did. She chose seafood.”

“And you left the table,” Washington said. “Restroom.”

Lavell’s jaw tightened. “Yes. Briefly.”

“Staff remembers you,” Washington continued. “When you came back, your wife stepped away to take a call. You were alone at the table next to her plate.”

“I didn’t touch her food,” Lavell said, but the conviction sounded thinner now.

Dankworth leaned forward. “We checked your computer. Browser history in the last month: tasteless and odorless poisons. Tetrodotoxin symptoms. How to obtain marine toxins. Time to onset.”

Lavell’s face drained of color. “Curiosity,” he whispered. “My hobby.”

Dankworth’s voice stayed steady, but his eyes hardened. “Curiosity that ended her life.”

Washington’s phone buzzed once. She glanced at it, then looked back at Lavell like the room had shifted.

Dankworth spoke again, slow and deliberate. “The powder from your kitchen? Our lab already tested it. It isn’t borax. It’s refined tetrodotoxin.”

Silence sat heavy on the table.

Washington added, “We checked the pharmacy. No prescription for an antihistamine. But the manager remembers you. Said you asked about rare chemicals for ‘experiments.’”

Lavell lifted his head. His eyes were dry now—no tears, no tremble. Just tiredness, like a mask finally set down.

“I want a lawyer,” he said.

“That’s your right,” Dankworth replied. He didn’t stand yet. “But hear me before you hide behind paperwork. That toxin doesn’t grant mercy. People often remain aware as their body stops responding. She suffered, Lavell. She knew something was wrong.”

Lavell twitched, a small flinch, and then went still.

Dankworth continued. “We also checked the hallway cameras in your building. Thursday night after the restaurant, you left the apartment for about forty minutes.”

Lavell’s voice came out low. “Taking out the trash.”

“At midnight,” Washington said, skepticism sharp. “And it took nearly an hour.”

Dankworth didn’t raise his voice. “We found gloves with toxin residue in the dumpster outside your building. Wrapped in newspaper. Your fingerprints.”

Lavell’s shoulders slumped, as if the weight of pretending finally became heavier than the consequences.

“You leave me no choice,” he whispered.

“You had a choice two weeks ago,” Dankworth said sharply, “when you decided to marry her and turn love into a trap.”

Lavell looked up. “You don’t understand,” he said, and for the first time his voice sounded almost honest. “I loved her. I really did.”

Washington’s eyes didn’t soften. “Then why?”

Lavell stared at his hands. “Money,” he said. The word landed dead. “I was in debt. My practice was failing. I owed tens of thousands in tuition. Collectors were calling. Threatening.”

“So you married a wealthy woman and decided she was an exit,” Dankworth said.

Lavell shook his head quickly. “At first, it wasn’t—” He swallowed. “At first, I just wanted stability. Then the prenup came. She insisted. And I realized the only way to get what I needed was if she died.”

Washington’s voice was quiet and cutting. “So you studied poisons.”

Lavell nodded once. “I wanted something that wouldn’t show up easily. Something that could look like… like an accident.”

“And you put it in her food at Azure,” Dankworth said.

Lavell shut his eyes briefly. “Yes. When she stepped away for the phone. I knew it wouldn’t hit immediately. I wanted it to look like she collapsed at work. Away from me.”

“Why the restaurant?” Washington asked.

Lavell’s answer came too smooth, like a lecture. “Safer. If anything went wrong, suspicion would fall on staff. And timing mattered. I needed her to be somewhere else when it happened.”

Dankworth let the admission sit between them like a stain that wouldn’t lift. “You understand you’ve confessed to premeditated murder.”

“I do,” Lavell said, and then, unbelievably, he looked directly at Dankworth. “If I had to choose again, I wouldn’t do it. Not because of what happens to me. Because I loved her.”

Dankworth stood, disgust contained behind professionalism. “Save that for court.”

Outside the precinct later, Tamika Brooks sat on a park bench with dry leaves skittering around her shoes in the wind. She clutched Dankworth’s business card so tightly the edges bent. When she saw him exit, she stood quickly.

“Detective Dankworth,” she called.

He stopped, face tired. “Ms. Brooks.”

“They said you arrested Lavell,” Tamika said, voice shaking. “Is it true? Did he really do it?”

“He confessed,” Dankworth said. “Poisoned her at a restaurant the night before she died.”

Tamika’s face crumpled. “So it was money.” She shook her head hard. “I warned her. Told her he was too perfect, too attentive. That nobody falls that fast without wanting something.”

Dankworth watched her grief with the quiet patience of a man who’d seen too many versions of it. “Did you suspect him?”

“Not of—” Tamika swallowed. “Not of this. I just felt something was off. But she said I was jealous of her happiness.”

Dankworth’s voice softened, but it carried a hard truth. “We investigate a lot of murders. The worst part isn’t always how people die. It’s how they lived right before—inside someone else’s deception, not knowing the enemy was beside them.”

Tamika wiped a tear. “I want people to know what she was like. Not just a ‘rich woman.’ She had dreams. A future.”

“The prosecutor will contact you,” Dankworth said. “Your testimony will matter.”

Tamika nodded, turning away slowly like every step required permission.

Washington called as Dankworth stood under the gray Chicago sky, the wind tugging at his coat. “Jabari, we have a problem,” she said.

“What now?”

“Puit’s lawyer wants additional testing. Claims the results could be manipulated.”

“Let him argue,” Dankworth said. “We have a confession.”

“That’s the thing,” Washington hesitated. “The DA’s office is considering a deal. He’ll plead guilty for a reduced sentence. Twenty years instead of life. Parole possible in ten.”

Dankworth’s jaw tightened until it hurt. He looked down at his own coffee, untouched, suddenly remembering the shattered mug in Lavell’s apartment and the quiet way Sherekica had worn her gold band like a promise she believed in.

“Sherekica deserves justice,” Dankworth said.

“I know,” Washington replied. “But they say it saves time and taxpayer money.”

“Money,” Dankworth said, bitter laugh without humor. “It’s always about money.”

He ended the call and stared up into the low clouds, wanting—just for a second—to believe the world was balanced somewhere beyond what courts could measure. He wasn’t a religious man, but he wanted to believe Sherekica had found peace, and that even if the system negotiated with evil, the truth wouldn’t be negotiated away.

Later, when he went back through the case file one more time, his eyes stopped on a detail he couldn’t unsee: a wedding photo copied from the wall of the Gold Coast apartment. Sherekica smiling wide, Lavell beside her, reserved. And on Sherekica’s left hand, that simple gold band catching the light.

The same band that had made her believe she was safe.

The same band that, in the end, marked the moment she signed her trust to the wrong person.

The hinge that remained was the cruelest one: sometimes the first day out isn’t a beginning at all—it’s the day the mask finally has room to fall.

Chicago did that thing it does in late October—turn the wind into a personality. It shoved dead leaves along the curb like it was sweeping the city clean, and it made even the nicest blocks of the Gold Coast feel sharp-edged. Outside Hampton Industries, the glass lobby glowed warm and bright, and above it a U.S. flag snapped hard against its pole, a crisp reminder that some things were always moving, always pulling. Sherekica Tmaine stepped out into the cold, drew a breath that stung her throat, and hugged her coat tighter as she crossed the parking lot. She pressed her key fob and her white Lexus answered with a polite flash of headlights.

Home, she thought. To Lavell.

Husband.

The word still felt like it belonged to someone else, like a label on a gift she hadn’t unwrapped fully yet. Two weeks married, a little over a year together. Fast, Tamika Brooks had said—too fast. But Sherekica had learned to trust her own judgment the hard way, and that kind of confidence was hard to talk her out of.

The hinge was simple: when a woman has fought her way up from nothing, she starts believing she can fight her way out of anything too.

On the drive north, brake lights stretched like a red ribbon, and Sherekica’s mind kept returning to the quiet steadiness Lavell offered. She’d dated men who took up space with their voices, men who turned every room into a stage. Lavell was different. He listened. He remembered what she liked—minimal jewelry, clean lines, no show. When he proposed, it wasn’t with fireworks or a stunt. It was in her living room after dinner, his hands steady, his eyes careful.

“I don’t want to waste time,” he’d told her. “Not when I know.”

Sherekica had laughed. “You sound like a commercial.”

“I sound like a man who’s serious,” he said, and there was something about the way he said serious that made her feel safe, not trapped.

Tamika didn’t buy it. She and Sherekica had been friends since college, the kind of friendship that had survived career jealousy and bad breakups and long stretches of busy silence. Tamika saw through people quickly, sometimes too quickly.

“He’s too polished,” Tamika said one afternoon at work, sitting on the edge of Sherekica’s desk like she owned it. “Too quiet. Like he’s reading from a script.”

“Or maybe he’s just not loud,” Sherekica replied, smiling while she signed a stack of paperwork. “Not everybody has to perform.”

“A year isn’t long,” Tamika insisted. “You don’t know him.”

Sherekica’s pen paused. “I know how he makes me feel.”

Tamika stared at her. “You’re not a feelings-first person.”

Sherekica capped her pen. “Maybe I’m tired of being a fortress.”

That was the line she didn’t say out loud: she wanted to stop guarding her life like it was a prize someone was always trying to steal. She wanted a partner who didn’t make her calculate risk. Lavell felt like relief.

So she did the practical thing alongside the romantic thing. She insisted on a prenup. Lavell didn’t argue much—just a small tightening around his mouth that disappeared as fast as it came.

“I understand,” he said. “You built everything. You should protect it.”

And when he slipped the ring onto her finger—simple gold, elegant, no diamonds—Sherekica felt like he understood her perfectly.

Now, driving home in the cold, she glanced at that band again and let herself enjoy the quiet pride of being chosen.

If she’d known what else that band would come to mean, she might have felt it like a warning instead of a promise.

By the time she parked and walked into her building, it was almost 8:00 p.m. Lavell met her at the door with a glass of red wine, as if he’d been waiting for the exact second the lock turned.

“Rough day?” he asked, kissing her cheek.

“The usual,” Sherekica said, letting her shoulders drop. “Maritime’s dragging their feet. If this closes, I’m looking at a nice bonus.”

“That’s wonderful,” Lavell said, arm around her shoulders. “We should celebrate this weekend. Azure.”

She blinked at him. Azure wasn’t a casual suggestion. Azure was a statement.

“You sure?” she asked lightly.

He smiled, gentle. “I want to do something nice for my wife.”

Wife. Another new word. It softened her.

“Okay,” she said, lifting the glass. “I’ll make reservations.”

She took a sip. The wine tasted normal—dry, faintly bitter, the way red wine always did. They ate dinner at home, watched a movie, and went to bed early. Sherekica lay awake for a while, listening to the wind worry the windows. She felt a low hum of anxiety under her skin, but she blamed the pressure of the deal, the usual stress of being the person everyone depended on.

Friday morning arrived on schedule. Sherekica woke at 6:30, showered, drank coffee, kissed a still-sleepy Lavell, and left. By 9:00 a.m., Hampton Industries was already buzzing. She was reviewing contract language when Tamika knocked once and stepped in.

“How was your evening with Mr. Perfect?” Tamika asked, leaning on the desk.

“Lavell isn’t perfect,” Sherekica said, smiling. “He’s real. With him I can relax.”

Tamika raised an eyebrow. “You rushed it.”

“A year is enough,” Sherekica shrugged. “A day is enough for some people.”

Tamika’s eyes dropped to the band. “You got that prenup?”

“We have a prenup,” Sherekica said. “I’m not naïve.”

“How romantic,” Tamika said, but her voice wasn’t joking.

“Practical,” Sherekica corrected. “I worked too long to lose everything.”

The secretary appeared with a call from Maritime, and the conversation swallowed the next hour. When Sherekica hung up, she felt lightheaded—just a little, like she’d stood too fast. She asked for a double espresso. By noon, the dizziness had thickened into nausea and weakness that made her limbs feel wrong, like she was walking through water.

At a lunch meeting, Marcus Hayes studied her face. “You okay? You look pale. Go home.”

“I’m fine,” Sherekica said, trying to smile. It didn’t hold. “Just tired.”

When the meeting ended, she stood, and the room tilted hard. She grabbed the back of her chair. Tamika was beside her immediately.

“Sherek,” Tamika whispered, “please. You don’t look right.”

“I just need to—” Sherekica began.

Pain hit her suddenly, sharp and deep, stealing the rest of her sentence. Her breath snagged. The world blurred. Her knees buckled.

“Sherekica!” Tamika screamed, and that sound became a thin thread that snapped as everything went dark.

The hinge turned again: the body is honest even when the mind is still trying to be brave.

Detective Jabari Dankworth had learned not to trust neat stories. Twenty years with Chicago PD had taught him that “natural causes” was sometimes just the first place people put their fear. He and his partner, Detective Shakira Washington, arrived at Hampton Industries to do what protocol demanded: treat sudden workplace death like a question, not an answer.

“Probably a simple cardiac arrest,” Shakira muttered as they rode the elevator up. “Why are we here?”

“Because she’s twenty-six,” Dankworth said. “And healthy people don’t usually leave work in a body bag.”

The office was still taped off when they arrived. The body had been removed, but the scene retained an echo: the outline on the carpet, the half-finished glass of water, the stack of papers waiting like nothing happened. Tamika Brooks stood nearby with a face that looked like it had been rearranged by grief.

“I can’t believe this,” she said, voice shaking. “She was healthy. No heart issues.”

Dankworth asked the standard questions: had Sherekica been sick, stressed, threatened. Tamika said no—only tired, stubborn, refusing to go home because she wanted the deal done.

“She got married two weeks ago,” Tamika added, and her voice tightened around the fact. “Lavell Puit.”

“Do you know him?” Shakira asked.

“Not really,” Tamika admitted. “Quiet. Polite. Too polite. And Sherekica made way more money than him. He was living in a studio in Garfield Park before they married.”

Dankworth logged that quietly. Money didn’t prove anything. But it always belonged on the list.

They checked the ex-boyfriend too—Derek Tubbs—because exes were easy suspects. But Derek had moved to Detroit, had an alibi, had the kind of ordinary financial life that didn’t hide expensive secrets. The story kept returning to one place: the Gold Coast apartment, and the husband inside it.

Lavell answered the door holding a coffee mug. Neatly trimmed beard, thin-rim glasses, the kind of face you might forget in a lineup. His hands trembled slightly, and Dankworth noticed because he noticed everything.

“Mr. Puit,” Dankworth said, badge shown. “We need to speak with you.”

“Police?” Lavell looked confused. “Why?”

In the living room, wedding photos lined the wall. Sherekica’s smile in every frame looked so bright it felt like it should warm the room. Lavell’s expression was reserved, controlled.

“Mr. Puit,” Dankworth said, “your wife passed away at work today.”

The mug slipped from Lavell’s hands and shattered on the floor. Coffee splashed across the parquet like a dark bloom.

“Dead?” he whispered. “How? I saw her this morning.”

“Preliminary report says cardiac arrest,” Dankworth replied. “Any health complaints?”

Lavell shook his head. “No. She was healthy. We’ve only been married two weeks.”

He covered his face with both hands. His shoulders shook, but he made almost no sound.

As the detectives rose to leave, Lavell stopped them. “There’s going to be an autopsy, right?”

“Standard,” Dankworth said.

Lavell nodded. “I just want to know why.”

Outside, Shakira exhaled. “He looks genuinely shaken.”

“Maybe,” Dankworth said. “But I want his timeline checked.”

When the medical examiner called Saturday morning, Dankworth already felt the answer in his bones.

“Detectives,” Dr. Obadiah Talbot told them at the morgue, “this wasn’t a heart attack. I found tetrodotoxin in her blood.”

“Poison,” Shakira said quietly.

“Rare,” Talbot confirmed. “Colorless. Odorless. It doesn’t announce itself. It just… turns the body off.”

Dankworth stood in his office afterward, staring at the report while rain blurred the city beyond the window. The case had changed categories. Not tragedy. Not misfortune.

Murder.

And the person closest to her was also the person most likely to have had access.

The hinge snapped tight: in a marriage, proximity can be the most dangerous weapon of all.

They returned to the Gold Coast apartment on Sunday. Lavell looked worse—red eyes, unshaven, the apartment frozen as if time had stopped at the moment he dropped the mug.

“I got a call,” he said quickly. “They said she was poisoned.”

“Where were you Thursday night and Friday morning?” Shakira asked.

Lavell gave them a clean timeline: home Thursday, dinner, movie, bed at eleven; Sherekica left around seven Friday; he stayed home working remotely until noon, then went to his office.

“Can anyone confirm you were home Friday morning?” Dankworth asked.

“I was alone,” Lavell admitted. “But I sent emails.”

“Where did you eat Thursday night?” Dankworth asked.

“Azure,” Lavell said. “We decided to celebrate.”

“What did she eat?” Shakira asked.

“Seafood platter,” Lavell replied. “She loved seafood.”

“And you left the table at any point?” Dankworth asked.

Lavell hesitated. “Yes. Restroom.”

“After food arrived,” Dankworth said, not a question.

Lavell’s jaw tightened. “Yes, but—”

“We’re going to look around the apartment,” Shakira said. “Standard procedure.”

Lavell’s agreement came too fast. “Fine. If it helps.”

The apartment was immaculate. Too immaculate, Dankworth thought, like cleaning had been used as control. In the kitchen, he found a small unlabeled jar of white powder among the spices. No smell. No label. He took a sample discreetly and resealed it. On the refrigerator, receipts sat under magnets, including one from a drugstore dated three weeks earlier—aspirin, bandages, antiseptic, and a “special mix prescribed by a doctor.”

In the home office, Dankworth noticed something else: books on toxicology and pharmacology, odd for a family-law attorney. In a drawer, a small box held vials and tiny bags of powders, each tagged with handwriting.

Lavell appeared in the doorway as Dankworth held the box.

“Find anything?” Lavell asked, voice thin.

“What are these?” Dankworth replied.

“It’s a hobby,” Lavell said quickly. “Chemistry. Experiments.”

“Hobby chemistry,” Dankworth repeated. “For a family-law attorney.”

“Everyone has oddities,” Lavell tried to smile. It came out nervous.

“You mind if we test these?” Dankworth asked. “Just to rule out—”

“I’d rather you didn’t touch my property without a warrant,” Lavell snapped, and then the calm mask slipped back on like he was embarrassed by the outburst.

“Your wife was poisoned,” Dankworth said. “And we’re finding unmarked substances. Do you understand how this looks?”

“I loved her,” Lavell said, and for a second the words sounded practiced.

“Then you won’t mind,” Dankworth replied.

Lavell’s eyes darted. “I need to make a phone call.”

He turned and left abruptly. A moment later, the front door slammed.

Dankworth and Shakira ran. Twenty flights of stairs. A blur of breath and footsteps. Outside, Lavell moved fast toward the park.

“Police!” Dankworth shouted. “Stop!”

Lavell ran until Shakira cut him off, and then the city folded around him. He raised his hands. He let the cuffs click on.

“I didn’t kill her,” he said quietly.

“Then why run?” Shakira asked.

Lavell stared at the ground and said nothing.

Back at the station, the interrogation room felt like a box designed to squeeze truth out of people. Lavell sat with a glass of water untouched in front of him, as if he didn’t trust anything liquid anymore.

Dankworth laid out the pieces. “You ran because you panicked.”

“I panicked because you found my chemicals,” Lavell insisted. “I knew you’d think I did it.”

“And you didn’t?” Dankworth asked.

“No,” Lavell said, hitting the table with his fist. “I loved her.”

Shakira’s voice was flat. “She had about $1.5 million in assets and benefits. Gold Coast condo, Lexus, investments, company life insurance.”

Lavell blinked as if he hadn’t considered the full number. “We had a prenup.”

“Prenups cover divorce,” Dankworth said. “Not death.”

Then the lab call came in. The white powder from the kitchen wasn’t harmless hobby material. It matched tetrodotoxin.

Silence fell heavy.

“We checked the pharmacy,” Shakira added. “No prescription for an antihistamine. But the manager remembers you asking about rare chemicals for ‘experiments.’”

Lavell stared at his hands, face drained of emotion like the performance had ended. “I want a lawyer,” he said.

“That’s your right,” Dankworth replied. He leaned forward anyway. “But hear this. That toxin doesn’t announce itself. The body fails while the mind is still awake. She knew something was wrong. She suffered.”

Lavell flinched, small, involuntary.

Dankworth slid in the last wedge. “We checked your building’s hallway cameras. Thursday night after Azure, you left for about forty minutes.”

“Taking out trash,” Lavell mumbled.

“At midnight?” Shakira asked.

Dankworth’s voice stayed calm. “We found gloves with toxin residue in the dumpster. Wrapped in newspaper with your fingerprints.”

Lavell’s shoulders sagged, like relief and defeat were the same sensation.

“You leave me no choice,” he whispered.

“You had a choice,” Dankworth said, sharper now. “Two weeks ago. One year ago. Every day you looked at her and decided to keep lying.”

Lavell looked up, and his eyes were dry. “You don’t understand,” he said. “I loved her.”

“Then why?” Shakira asked.

Lavell’s voice went lifeless. “Money. My practice was failing. I owed tens of thousands in tuition. Collectors were calling. I couldn’t see a way out.”

“So you found a woman who could pay your way out,” Dankworth said.

“There wasn’t a plan to hurt her at first,” Lavell insisted, as if that mattered. “I wanted stability. Then the prenup happened. And I realized the only way I could access anything was if she died.”

Shakira didn’t blink. “So you studied poisons.”

Lavell nodded. “I wanted something tasteless. Odorless. Something that could look like a medical event.”

“And you used dinner at Azure,” Dankworth said.

“Yes,” Lavell admitted. “When she stepped away to take a phone call. I knew it wouldn’t take effect immediately. I wanted her to collapse at work, away from me.”

“Why the restaurant?” Shakira asked.

Lavell answered too smoothly. “If anyone suspected, they’d blame staff. And timing mattered.”

Dankworth stared at him, disgust held behind procedure. “You understand you’ve confessed to premeditated murder.”

“I do,” Lavell said, and then he did something almost unbearable—he tried to reclaim tenderness. “If I could choose again, I wouldn’t do it. Not because of what happens to me. Because I loved her.”

“Save it for court,” Dankworth said, standing. “Love doesn’t look like this.”

The hinge at the end was the ugliest truth: sometimes the first day of a marriage isn’t the start of a life together—it’s the first day the trap finally closes.

Tamika Brooks sat on a bench across from the precinct later, the wind tossing dry leaves around her shoes like restless hands. She held Dankworth’s business card so tightly the corners bent.

“Detective,” she called when she saw him.

Dankworth stopped, face tired in a way coffee couldn’t fix.

“They arrested Lavell,” Tamika said. “Is it true?”

“He confessed,” Dankworth replied. “He used a rare toxin. Put it in her food the night before.”

Tamika’s face crumpled. “So it was money. I warned her.” Her voice cracked. “I told her he was too perfect. Too attentive. That nobody falls that fast without wanting something.”

Dankworth watched her grief settle into anger and guilt. “Did you suspect him?”

“Not like this,” Tamika whispered. “I just… felt off. But she said I was jealous of her happiness.”

“The worst part isn’t always how people die,” Dankworth said quietly. “It’s how they lived right before—inside someone else’s deception, not knowing the danger was already in the room.”

Tamika wiped her cheek. “I want to speak at trial. I want people to know she wasn’t just a headline or a bank account. She had dreams. She had plans.”

“The prosecutor will contact you,” Dankworth said. “Your voice matters.”

As Tamika walked away, Dankworth’s phone rang. Shakira.

“Jabari,” she said, “the DA’s office is considering a deal.”

“A deal,” he repeated, already hating the word.

“Puit will plead guilty for a reduced sentence,” Shakira said. “Twenty years instead of life. Parole possible in ten.”

Dankworth looked up at the gray sky and felt anger rise like bile. “She deserves justice.”

“I know,” Shakira said. “They’re saying it saves time and taxpayer money.”

“Money,” Dankworth said, and the laugh that escaped him had no humor. “It’s always money.”

He ended the call and stood there a moment longer, thinking about Sherekica stepping out into the cold with her wedding band catching the last light of day, thinking she was walking into warmth. He thought about the shattered mug on the parquet, coffee staining the floor, and how grief could be performed like theater. He thought about the fact that she’d protected herself with a prenup, only to learn protection has holes when love is used like a weapon.

Later, when he reviewed the file again, his eyes stopped on the wedding photo pulled from Lavell’s wall. Sherekica smiling wide, joy bright enough to look like safety. Lavell beside her, controlled, almost blank. And that simple gold band on her hand—elegant, understated, exactly her style.

A ring meant to symbolize forever.

A ring that, in the end, marked the moment she trusted the wrong man.

And that was the part Dankworth couldn’t arrest, couldn’t cuff, couldn’t sentence: the way a person can do everything right—work hard, rise up, protect their assets—and still be undone by someone who steps close enough to call it love.