Page 187 of This Life of Mine

My stomach twists violently.

No. No, no, no—

Chapter fifty-six

Lina

Please. Please tell me this isn’t possible. Please, God...tell me she didn’t have something to do with my child’s death.

The thought rips through me like shattered glass.

My stomach knots so violently I have to press a hand against it. Nausea surges up my throat, my mouth flooding with saliva as I fight the urge to be sick.

No. No, she couldn’t.

Could she?

“The dinner,” she continues, “that big, beautiful family dinner. Everyone laughing. Toasting. Pretending.”

I see it—crystal chandeliers, white linen, the long table gleaming with silver and wineglasses. The Allister estate dressed up like a magazine spread.

She lets out a short, amused laugh.

“I was careful,” she says. “Everyone had a glass in front of them. No one was watching. They never do at those kinds of ridiculous dinners that David insisted on having for show.”

My chest tightens.

“I slipped something into Cole’s drink,” she continues. “Nothing too concentrated. Just enough.” She shrugs. “I knew he’d drive you home. He always did. He hated waiting for drivers. Hated being told what to do.”

Then her eyes flick back to me. “And yours,” she adds lightly. “I didn’t forget about you,” she whispers.

The room rocks around me, slow and unsteady, as though the ground itself has given up trying to hold me.

“Different mixture,” she explains, almost instructional. “Subtle. Something that wouldn’t show up right away. Something doctors could chalk up to stress. Or trauma.” Her mouth curves. “Or a tragic accident.”

Oh God.

My stomach plummets. Heat drains from my face as my vision tunnels, the world narrowing until all I can focus on is the impossible scene in front of me. I blink, willing the room to steady, but it only sways harder.

“I didn’t need you dead,” she says calmly. “Just empty-handed.”

“Cassie was all too willing to help me with your drink. That’s why she sat next to you that night. She wanted the one thing that tied you to Cole gone as much as I did.”

She watches me carefully, gauging whether the truth has landed yet.

“One drink to make surehewouldn’t make it home,“ she continues. “And one to make sure the pregnancy didn’t survive.”

Her voice doesn’t waver. “Efficient,” she adds. “Don’t you think?”

Tears blur my vision until the room dissolves into indistinct shapes.

I can’t breathe.

The walls appear to constrict me, the ground losing its firmness. My chest tightens until every breath becomes a battle,a sharp ache blooming beneath my ribs and spreading through every part of me.

No. No. No—

The word echoes uselessly through my mind, as if denying it long enough might somehow make it untrue.