“My husband thought I was asleep… but I saw what he brought into our bedroom.”

I never imagined I would become afraid of a cup of tea.

But by the fourth week, I couldn’t ignore it anymore.

Every night, Marcus made my tea.

Chamomile. A little honey. No sugar.

It had become our routine.

At first, I thought it was sweet.

My husband would walk into the bedroom carrying two steaming cups, kiss my forehead, and say, “Time to relax, Anna.”

But something changed.

After drinking it, I would become overwhelmingly tired.

Not normal tired.

It felt as though someone had pulled a plug inside my body.

My arms became heavy.

My thoughts became slow.

Sometimes I couldn’t remember falling asleep.

And occasionally, I woke up in the morning with strange bruises on my wrists or shoulders.

When I asked Marcus about them, he always had an explanation.

“You probably bumped into something.”

“You toss around in your sleep.”

“You’re getting older, sweetheart.”

The last answer bothered me most.

Because Marcus was only forty-six.

I was forty-three.

And I wasn’t imagining what was happening to me.

One night, after drinking my tea, I woke around 3:00 a.m.

The room was dark.

Marcus wasn’t beside me.

I heard footsteps downstairs.

Then I heard the kitchen cabinet close.

I quietly got out of bed and walked toward the stairs.

When I reached the hallway, I saw Marcus standing in the kitchen.

He was holding a small glass bottle.

He quickly shoved it into a drawer when he noticed me.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

He smiled.

“Getting water.”

I looked at the drawer.

Then at him.

“What’s in there?”

“Nothing.”

His answer came too quickly.

That was the moment something inside me changed.

I stopped believing him.

The next evening, Marcus made my tea as usual.

He handed it to me with the same smile.

I thanked him.

Then I waited.

When he left the bedroom to answer a phone call, I carried the cup into the bathroom.

I stared at the pale yellow liquid.

For several seconds, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

Then I poured it down the sink.

I rinsed the cup.

I returned to bed.

And I pretended to drink the tea.

Marcus came back ten minutes later.

“You finished it?”

I nodded.

“Every drop.”

He smiled.

“Good.”

I closed my eyes.

That night, I didn’t sleep.

I pretended to.

At 2:17 a.m., I heard the bedroom door open.

Slowly.

Marcus stepped inside.

But he wasn’t wearing pajamas.

He was dressed in black.

And he was wearing latex gloves.

My heart began pounding.

He walked toward the nightstand and placed something beside the bed.

A tiny camera.

He adjusted it carefully until it pointed directly at me.

Then he leaned close.

I felt his breath against my cheek.

“Sweet dreams, Anna.”

I forced myself not to move.

Not even a finger.

Marcus stepped away.

Then I heard a zipper.

He had brought a small black bag.

He placed it on the floor and opened it.

I couldn’t see everything from where I was lying.

But I could see enough.

Photographs.

A stack of them.

He pulled out the first photograph and studied it.

Then another.

Then another.

My stomach tightened.

Every photograph showed a woman asleep.

Different bedrooms.

Different women.

Different houses.

But they all looked unconscious.

Marcus arranged several photographs on the floor.

Then he whispered something I couldn’t hear.

I desperately wanted to open my eyes.

But I knew one wrong movement could expose me.

Finally, he pulled out a photograph that made my entire body go cold.

It was a picture of a woman lying in a hospital bed.

I recognized her.

I had seen her before.

She was Laura Bennett, Marcus’s former wife.

Marcus had told me Laura died six years ago from an accidental overdose.

But the photograph was clearly taken inside a hospital.

And Laura was alive.

At least when that picture was taken.

I almost gasped.

Then I noticed something written on the back.

Marcus had written:

SHE WAS THE FIRST.

He put the photograph back.

Then he pulled out another.

This one showed a woman sitting at a restaurant.

On the back:

SHE ASKED QUESTIONS.

Another photograph.

A woman standing outside a police station.

SHE ALMOST REMEMBERED.

My blood ran cold.

How many women were there?

And what had Marcus done to them?

Then he pulled out one final photograph.

My photograph.

It had been taken earlier that same day.

I was standing outside our house.

The back contained a single sentence:

SUBJECT: ANNA — PHASE TWO COMPLETE.

I nearly opened my eyes.

But then Marcus’s phone vibrated.

He looked at the screen.

His expression changed.

“It’s done,” he whispered.

A voice answered through the phone.

I couldn’t hear the words.

Marcus glanced at me.

Then he said:

“She didn’t drink it tonight.”

Silence.

His face suddenly became furious.

“No. She must have suspected something.”

My heart stopped.

He knew.

He knew I had poured out the tea.

Marcus ended the call.

For a moment, he just stood there staring at me.

Then he walked out.

I waited.

One minute.

Two.

Five.

Nothing.

Finally, I opened my eyes.

The camera was still beside the bed.

I reached for it.

But before I could touch it, I noticed something strange.

The tiny red recording light wasn’t on.

The camera wasn’t recording.

It was a decoy.

Marcus had expected me to discover it.

Why?

I grabbed his black bag.

I wanted evidence.

Inside were photographs, medical documents, several old phones, keys, and a folder containing names.

I opened it.

There were seven women listed.

Next to each name was a date.

And beside each date were three letters:

A.P.

But the seventh name wasn’t crossed out.

It was mine.

ANNA REED — A.P. 02:17

I didn’t understand what A.P. meant.

Then I found a second folder underneath.

This one was marked:

MARCUS REED — SUBJECT HISTORY

My hands started shaking.

I opened it.

Inside were photographs of Marcus.

Not photographs taken by him.

Photographs of Marcus sleeping.

Marcus entering our house.

Marcus sitting at restaurants.

Marcus walking through hospital corridors.

Someone had been watching him.

Then I found a medical report.

The patient’s name was Marcus Reed.

The date was six years earlier.

And the diagnosis made my blood run cold.

Severe dissociative episodes. Memory impairment.

But that wasn’t the shocking part.

The report contained a handwritten note:

Patient repeatedly insists he is protecting women from an unidentified individual who drugged them.

I read the sentence again.

Then again.

Marcus wasn’t necessarily the one who had started this.

Maybe someone had been controlling him.

I flipped through the documents faster.

There were police reports.

Hospital records.

Old photographs.

And finally, a newspaper clipping.

The headline read:

LOCAL WOMAN FOUND UNCONSCIOUS — HUSBAND QUESTIONED

The woman was Laura.

But underneath the article was a photograph of the police officers investigating the case.

One officer looked strangely familiar.

I stared at his face.

Then my knees nearly gave out.

I knew him.

He had visited our house two years ago.

Marcus had introduced him as an old family friend.

His name was Detective Daniel Cross.

I kept reading.

The article said Laura had survived.

But six years ago, she had disappeared from the hospital.

No body was ever found.

No one knew where she went.

Then I saw another document.

A recent bank statement.

Money had been transferred every month to an account under the name Laura Bennett.

The transfers were coming from an account belonging to Marcus.

I heard the bedroom door creak.

I froze.

Marcus stood there.

But he wasn’t angry.

He looked terrified.

He stared at the open folder in my hands.

Then he whispered,

“Anna…”

I backed away.

“Stay away from me.”

He shook his head.

“You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it.”

He looked toward the window.

Then toward the hallway.

Finally, he said something that changed everything.

“I wasn’t putting something in your tea to hurt you.”

I stared at him.

“Then why?”

His voice broke.

“Because someone has been watching you.”

I didn’t speak.

Marcus stepped closer.

“I was trying to keep you unconscious because they were coming into the house.”

I almost laughed.

“You expect me to believe that?”

He pulled out his phone.

He showed me a video.

The timestamp was from three nights earlier.

It was security footage from our bedroom.

At 2:17 a.m., while Marcus was downstairs, our bedroom door slowly opened.

A man entered.

He stood beside my bed.

He looked directly into the camera.

And then he leaned toward me.

I recognized him immediately.

It was Detective Daniel Cross.

The same man who had supposedly been Marcus’s old friend.

The same man whose name appeared in the old police reports.

Marcus whispered,

“He’s been doing this for years.”

I looked at the photographs.

The women.

The hospital.

The missing records.

The strange notes.

Everything suddenly made sense.

But there was one question I couldn’t answer.

“If you knew,” I whispered, “why didn’t you go to the police?”

Marcus looked at me with tears in his eyes.

“Because the police were already involved.”

Then he reached into the black bag and pulled out one final photograph.

It wasn’t a photograph of Laura.

It wasn’t a photograph of me.

It was a photograph of Detective Cross standing beside a hospital bed.

And lying in that bed was a woman I had never seen before.

On the back was a date.

Tomorrow.

Below it were six words:

“Anna is the last one.”

I looked at Marcus.

“Last one for what?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he took my hand and pulled me toward the back door.

“We have to leave. Right now.”

We ran outside.

But as we reached the driveway, a car stopped at the curb.

The headlights came on.

The driver’s door opened.

Detective Cross stepped out.

He wasn’t holding a weapon.

He was holding a cup of chamomile tea.

He looked straight at me and smiled.

Then he said:

“Anna, you really shouldn’t have opened Marcus’s bag.”

And behind him, another woman stepped out of the car.

A woman I had believed was dead for six years.

Laura Bennett.

She looked at me and whispered:

“He’s lying to you.”