Don’t Drink the Soup

I watched as more and more police officers arrived and surrounded our house. I was more confused than ever.The officers searched the house. One of them turned to my mother-in-law. "There’s nothing wrong here. The security footage looks normal too!"The footage showed my husband making me chicken soup as usual before he left for work.My husband was a police officer, and he sometimes worked night shifts.My mother-in-law looked at me and hesitated. "Ayla, go outside for a moment. I need to speak to the police alone.""What can’t you say in front of me?" I tried to move closer so I could hear.But she pushed me firmly out the door.Since I got pregnant, my mother-in-law gave me nearly everything I asked for. We never had the conflicts other women had with their mothers-in-law.We were practically best friends. She never disregarded my feelings and pushed me away like this.I held my belly and waited outside for ten agonizing minutes. At last, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I went back in

He saw me and smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re back?”He sounded as casual as if I’d only gone out for groceries. “Perfect timing. The soup’s ready.”My throat tightened. I steadied myself against the kitchen counter.He came over with a bowl of soup. Pieces of chicken rose above the rim of the white porcelain bowl. The broth was rich and milky, and steam brushed my face.“Drink it while it’s hot. Your due date’s close, so you should have plenty of chicken soup.”I took a deep breath and tried to keep my voice steady. “Weren’t you… working on a case? How did you get back so soon?”He laughed softly and reached out to ruffle my hair.His fingertips felt normal. So did the gesture. His fingers brushed my ear with exactly the same pressure as Quinn’s.“The case ended early. I could’ve come back last night, but I didn’t want to wake you, so I slept at the station. I bought some chicken this morning because I thought you could use a good meal.”“It ended last night?” I rep

Once the police were in position around the building, I went back to the apartment. The hall light came on as I opened the building door, casting a dim yellow glow over my face.I held the railing as I climbed the stairs. At our door, my hands shook so badly that it took three tries to fit the key into the lock.The kitchen light was still on. The man sat at the dining table with two bowls of soup in front of him, one for me and one for himself.He smiled when he saw me. It was the same smile as before, down to the crinkle at the corners of his eyes.“You’re back? I made a fresh pot. It isn’t greasy.”I sat across from him. A few pieces of chicken floated in my bowl. The broth was clear, without a trace of oil on its surface.I picked up the bowl and forced myself to take a sip.He watched me drink but didn’t touch his own soup. His hands rested on the table, fingers interlaced.“Do the ashes taste good?” he asked suddenly. His voice was so soft he might have been making small talk.