Destroy (Sordid 2.5)

“Don’t worry,” she said with a reassuring tone, “we’ve already running off the generator. The hospital has two of them.”

“Oh,” I said. “But what happens if a generator stops working?”

She wrinkled her forehead. “These generators are so big, they have their own building.” My worried expression forced her to continue. “In the really unlikely event that happens, all these machines have battery backup.”

I played up my fear and made her show me exactly how the systems worked and where the batteries went. Only when she was done, did I look satisfied.

“Your husband is in the safest place he could be,” she said.

It wasn’t true. Not only because a Markovic had been here earlier, but because I was standing beside Sidor’s bed and insidious voices whispered through my mind. It’d be easy to do.

It’d take less than two minutes before he was gone, and then I’d be free. No messy, expensive divorce. No months wasted, waiting for him to die. I could leave Chicago as soon as the funeral was over and the finances settled.

My stomach churned with anxiety as I contemplated killing my husband. Vasilije said if I wanted it done, I was going to have to do it myself. But what if I got caught? Could I really become a killer and take someone else’s life? What would Sergey do to me if he found out? Thunder crashed outside and rattled the window.

My chest was tight with tension.

The nurse finished her check-in and entered some keystrokes into the computer system mounted to the wall opposite the bed. When it was done, she turned and her gaze settled on me, her expression warm and understanding.

“I think we’re all set for the transfer tomorrow.”

I blinked. “Transfer? Is my husband going somewhere?”

She hesitated, confused. “An order got put in this morning to transfer to long-term care. That wasn’t you?” She returned to the computer and typed, pulling up the record. “Yeah, there it is. Transfer made at the family’s request.”

“That wasn’t me. It must have been his brother.” Irritation flared in my voice. “I don’t have power of attorney.” It wasn’t surprising that Sergey had done this without informing me, but anger coiled tight in my belly.

“Ah.” She pressed her lips into a flat line. “This floor is full. We have an obligation to help critical patients, and right now we have to send them to a different hospital because your husband’s brother is refusing the doctors’ recommendations.”

I understood what she was saying. Sidor wasn’t going to get better, and he was taking up the space of the people who had a chance to improve. All because Sergey Petrov couldn’t accept the fact that his brother wasn’t going to wake up.

He’d also rejected organ donation. His selfishness knew no limits.

She gave me the name of the long-term care facility, the details of the transfer, wished me goodnight, and hurried off to attend to her patients that were still alive.

The wind howled outside, and I felt the walls closing in on me. I was trapped in this room. Trapped in my marriage. I was held captive in a life I didn’t want to be living. Sidor needed to get what he had coming to him.

The plate on the back of the respirator was held in place by one tiny screw. As an artist, I was good with my hands, and I always carried a Swiss Army knife in my purse. I’d used it countless times on various things, everything from cutting open plastic wrap to making last-minute corrections to art before a show opening.

My hands shook as I unscrewed the plate on the back of the respirator. I told myself I could turn back at any time. All I was doing was looking at the battery. The machine was still hooked up to a power source—I hadn’t done anything to disrupt that.

Not yet.

Blood whooshed loudly in my head, drowning out the sound of the clicking machine, the rain beating down on the building, and any voice of reason that would stop me from going further. I moved as if possessed by an uncontrollable force. The battery was unseated, engaging a flashing warning light on the front screen. I turned it upside-down, slipped it back into the slot, and recovered the panel.

I could stop here. It was possible tomorrow when they went to move him, they’d want to rely on the battery, but what were the odds he’d be unplugged long enough before they realized the issue? He’d survived a bullet barreling through his brain. Sergey hadn’t told me about the long-term care. It was entirely likely he’d bar me from the facility, knowing I wouldn’t waste time and money hiring lawyers to fight to see a man I despised.

I wouldn’t get another chance, and I needed to be sure.

I bent and followed the mess of cords snaking behind the machine, which led to a large, thick power cord plugged into the wall. Over the outlet, a warning sticker read in an ominous font, “Life support system. Do not unplug.”