Poison?
Medicine?
Some strange homemade alcohol?
Something that could explain why a man had guarded one bottle for three and a half decades?
I opened the cupboard.
Then I stopped.
I heard Victor moving upstairs.
I put the bottle back.
The next morning, he was gone.
Not dead.
Not missing.
Just gone for a doctor’s appointment.
And for some reason, I suddenly felt that I had been given an opportunity.
I took the bottle down.
I wrapped it carefully in a towel.
And I put it in my handbag.
I didn’t tell Victor.
I didn’t tell Emily.
I drove to a private laboratory across town.
At the reception desk, a woman asked what I wanted analyzed.
I hesitated.
“I don’t know exactly.”
She smiled politely.
“That’s fine. We can still test it.”
I handed her the bottle.
She looked at the label.
There wasn’t one.
“Do you know what it is?”
