The gravy coated her mashed potatoes in a slow deliberate pour, rich and dark like chocolate sauce but savory. The steam carried hints of meat drippings and herbs and something else, something beneath the familiar smells, something metallic.
Αcross the table, Grant smiled at her. His blond hair was perfectly combed, parted on the left the way his mother liked it. His blue eyes sparkled with wine and family warmth. He looked happy, relaxed, home.
He had no idea.
Vivien lifted her fork.
The first bite touched her tongue.
Bitter. Wrong.
7 years of FBI training kicked in before her conscious mind could catch up.
4 years in the Behavioral Αnalysis Unit studying killers and their methods. 2 years undercover with the Koslov crime family, watching people die in ways that looked like accidents.
She knew poison profiles the way other women knew wine pairings, the way chefs knew spice combinations, the way musicians knew chord progressions.
This was not herbs. Not rosemary or thyme or sage.
