|"I've just returned from your funeral." The painting stared back at her. The eyes of the middle-aged man portrayed followed Meryl as she moved about the room. "You know it had to be done, don't you?" She adjusted the sling on her left arm but it made no difference to the pain.
Meryl moved to the kitchen. As she switched on the kettle, she surveyed the fist-shaped dent in the door. The blood had been cleaned up, but that smell of death still lingered. The knife block with the one empty slot was a permanent reminder.
The portrait cast a macabre aura over the room as Meryl settle with her cup of tea. "It
was you or me. I chose me. Cheers Fred!" She raised her cup. A pile of letters lay unopened on the coffee table. She rooted through and picked out a large brown envelope. Ripping it open, she smiled up at the painting. "A hundred grand, that's what you're worth."
She expected the knock on the door. It had to come. She couldn't maintain the poor battered wife act forever. They knew. The bottle was on the table. How quickly could she swallow the contents? One pill, two, three, four ...
They battered down the door. "There's a pulse!" Please, no, let me go.