So it had come to this.
Sitting in the scoop shaped seat, arms draped over the side with a cigarette smouldering in the holder loosely clasped between her fingers, head cocked to one side as she stared pensively down at the ladder in the hose covering her left knee while maintaining the pose for her husband, the photographer; the artist.
She should have known.
He’d been vague with her lately, evasive. He’d been spending more and more time away from her, always working on some project, some pretty young model or other.
So now here she was, disappointed that their shot-gun marriage hadn’t worked out, that he’d amateurishly poisoned the cigarette with an obvious poison easily detected; offended that he would assume that she was that stupid, that he wanted to cash her in for the life insurance policy.
He would have to die, by accident of course.