Chapter 2 The Murder Countdown
# Chapter 2: The Murder Countdown
Nina closed the bedroom door behind her with a gentle click, her heart racing with a mixture of fear and exhilaration. The diamonds of her necklace felt cold against her palm, each precious stone a reminder of what she had almost lost—her life, her future, everything.
She waited in the hallway, counting her breaths until she heard the telltale sound of Ernest's soft snoring through the door. The sedative was working faster than she had anticipated. Perfect.
Glancing at the grandfather clock, she noted the time: 6:15 PM. Forty-five minutes until the moment she had died in her previous life.
Nina slipped off her heels, padding silently back to the bedroom door. She opened it just enough to peer inside. Ernest lay sprawled across their king-sized bed, one arm flung over his face, his breathing deep and regular. He wasn't completely unconscious—the dose wasn't that strong—but he was certainly disoriented enough for her to work uninterrupted.
She crept to the still-open safe, careful not to make a sound. The revolver caught her eye first—a temptation, a quick solution to her Ernest problem. But no. A gunshot was too loud, too messy, too easily traced back to her. Besides, there was something poetic about allowing Ernest to die by the very same plan he had crafted for her.
Instead, Nina reached for the folder containing what she now knew was a falsified prenuptial agreement. She flipped it open, confirming her suspicions. There was her signature—or rather, an impressive forgery of it—on a document stating that in the event of her death, all her personal assets would revert not to her family as her real will dictated, but to Ernest.
But that wasn't the most shocking discovery. At the bottom of the document, another name caught her eye: Vanessa Blackwood, Ernest's sister, listed as the secondary beneficiary. If anything were to happen to Ernest, everything would go to Vanessa—the same sister who had supposedly cut all ties with her brother years ago after a bitter family dispute.
Nina carefully replaced the fake prenup and reached deeper into the safe, her fingers finding the notebook she knew would be there. The leather-bound journal was expensive, monogrammed with her initials—a birthday gift from Ernest last year that she had never used. Now she understood why he had been so insistent on giving her a journal. He had been planning this for a long time.
She pulled it out and flipped it open. The first few pages were blank, but then came entries dated from six months ago, all written in a perfect imitation of her handwriting. As she scanned the pages, a chill ran down her spine:
"I can't sleep anymore. The darkness seems to be closing in."
"Ernest tries to help, but how can I tell him that sometimes I think about just ending it all?"
"The pills don't help anymore. Nothing helps."
Page after page of carefully crafted despair, building a narrative of a woman spiraling into depression, setting the stage for what would appear to be an inevitable suicide. The final entry, dated today, read simply: "I can't do this anymore. I'm sorry, Ernest. Please forgive me."
Nina felt sick. Not just at the calculated cruelty of it all, but at how easily everyone would have believed it. She had been isolated over the past year—Ernest's doing, she now realized, as he gradually cut her off from friends and family. Who would question that the lonely, reclusive Mrs. Blackwood had finally succumbed to her demons?
A sudden inspiration struck her. Nina hurried to the adjoining bathroom, rummaging through her cosmetics until she found what she needed: a small metal nail file with a razor-sharp edge. Returning to the bedroom, she carefully worked the file between the binding and cover of the journal, creating a hidden pocket.
From her jewelry box, she retrieved a packet of replacement razor blades for her crafting hobby—another solitary pastime Ernest had encouraged. With surgical precision, she inserted a blade into each page of the fake journal, positioning them so they would be invisible until the pages were turned, but would slice into the fingers of anyone flipping through the book.
As she worked, Nina's mind raced ahead, envisioning Ernest waking from his drugged sleep, finding her gone, and reaching for the journal to finalize his plan. He would cut himself on the hidden blades, leaving his DNA and fingerprints all over the fake suicide note. Evidence that would be impossible to explain away.
She was nearly finished when a sound from the bed made her freeze. Ernest shifted, mumbling something incoherent, before settling back into stillness. Nina exhaled slowly and continued her work, inserting the final blade.
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed the half-hour. 6:30 PM. Thirty minutes left.
Nina carefully returned the journal to the safe, positioning it exactly as she had found it. Before closing the safe door, her eyes landed on the mysterious document she had spotted earlier—the one partially hidden beneath everything else. Curiosity overcame caution, and she gently extracted it.
Her blood ran cold as she unfolded the paper. It was indeed a prenuptial agreement, but not the falsified one she had examined earlier. This was the real document—the one she and Ernest had signed before their wedding. But there was an addendum attached, dated just three months after their marriage, with what appeared to be her signature authorizing a change in beneficiaries.
According to this document, in the event of Nina's death, all assets would transfer directly to Vanessa Blackwood, bypassing Ernest entirely. Nina's signature on the addendum was a masterful forgery—one she had never authorized.
The pieces clicked into place. Ernest wasn't just planning to kill her for her money; he was working with his supposedly estranged sister. The realization sent a wave of cold fury through Nina. How long had they been plotting together? Was their public falling-out just a cover for their conspiracy?
Nina took out her phone and quickly photographed the document, making sure to capture the forged signature clearly. Then she carefully replaced it in the safe, positioning everything exactly as it had been.
As she closed the safe door, Nina's fingers hovered over the dial. With a small, vindictive smile, she spun it to a different combination than the one Ernest had used. Now, when he woke and tried to access the safe, it wouldn't open. A small inconvenience, but one that would frustrate and delay him—buying her precious time.
The sound of her phone vibrating broke the silence. Nina checked the screen and saw a text from an unknown number: "All set for tonight. 7 PM as discussed. No witnesses."
The message wasn't meant for her. It must have been sent to Ernest's phone. Which meant that her husband's phone was synchronized with hers—another way he had been monitoring her. And more importantly, it confirmed that someone else was involved in her planned "accident."
Nina moved swiftly to Ernest's side of the bed and carefully extracted his phone from his pocket. Using his sleeping thumb to unlock it, she found more messages from the unknown number, detailing payment for services and instructions for tonight. The last message sent a chill down her spine: "After she falls, wait 10 minutes before calling 911. Make sure she's not breathing."
So Ernest hadn't planned to push her himself—he had hired someone to do it, someone who was expecting to execute the plan at 7 PM sharp. Someone who might already be in the house.
Nina glanced at the clock: 6:40 PM. Twenty minutes left.
She quickly forwarded all the incriminating texts to her own email, then deleted the forwarded messages from Ernest's sent folder. After replacing his phone exactly as she had found it, Nina moved to the bedroom door, listening carefully for any sound in the hallway.
Silence.
She slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her. If Ernest's accomplice was already in the house, she needed to find them before they found her. But first, she needed to secure her evidence.
Nina made her way to her private study—the one room in the house that Ernest rarely entered. From a hidden compartment in her desk, she retrieved a small USB drive. She connected it to her computer and quickly saved copies of the photos she had taken, along with the forwarded text messages.
As she worked, a plan formed in her mind. Ernest expected her to die at 7 PM. What if, instead, she simply disappeared? What explanation could he possibly give for his wife's sudden vanishing act, especially with the evidence she now possessed?
But no—running wasn't enough. Ernest was wealthy and connected. He would find her eventually. This had to end tonight, and it had to end with him unable to harm her ever again.
The grandfather clock chimed again: 6:45 PM. Fifteen minutes.
Nina tucked the USB drive into her bra and made her way downstairs, careful to stay alert for any sign of Ernest's hired help. The house remained eerily quiet. She slipped into the kitchen and opened the liquor cabinet, retrieving a bottle of Ernest's favorite scotch—an expensive single malt he reserved for special occasions.
What could be more special than a husband's plans to murder his wife?
She poured a generous amount into a crystal tumbler, then reached into her pocket for the emergency sleeping pill she always carried—her last one. She crushed it between two spoons and stirred the powder into the scotch. Then, as a final touch, she added ice from the freezer—the special spherical ice Ernest insisted was the only proper way to chill good scotch.
Nina carried the drink back upstairs, moving silently through the halls of the mansion that had become her prison. Outside the bedroom door, she paused, listening again for Ernest's breathing. Still asleep.
She opened the door and approached the bed, setting the scotch on his nightstand within easy reach. Then she leaned down and whispered in his ear: "Ernest, darling. Wake up."
He stirred, eyes fluttering open in confusion. "Nina? What... what time is it?"
"Almost seven," she said softly. "You fell asleep. I brought you a drink."
Ernest pushed himself up against the headboard, blinking rapidly as he tried to clear his head. "Seven? But..." He seemed to catch himself, a flash of calculation crossing his features before he masked it with a smile. "Thank you, darling."
Nina watched as he reached for the tumbler, bringing it to his lips and taking a deep swallow. His eyes widened slightly at the generous pour, but he didn't complain. Ernest never complained about expensive scotch.
"I need to make a call," he said, reaching for his phone. "Business matter."
"Of course," Nina replied, moving toward the door. "I'll be downstairs."
As she closed the door behind her, she checked the time once more: 6:55 PM. Five minutes until her scheduled death. Five minutes until Ernest's accomplice would expect to find her broken body at the bottom of the stairs.
Nina moved swiftly to the top of the grand staircase—the scene of her death in that other life—and waited. The sedative in Ernest's drink would take effect quickly, especially combined with the residue of the first dose still in his system. He would be unconscious within minutes, leaving her free to deal with whoever was coming.
The grandfather clock began to toll the hour. Seven chimes, each one reverberating through the mansion like a death knell.
But this time, death would not be coming for Nina Blackwood.
