Chapter 3 - The Crimson Signal
Three weeks after Ed walked out, the silence of my bedroom was broken at 4:15 in the afternoon by a high-pitched, insistent alarm from my smartphone.
It wasn't a standard ringtone or a text notification. It was a harsh, rhythmic siren designed to cut through sleep and ambient noise—the emergency health alert from the smartwatch app I had set up for Ed two months prior.
I grabbed the phone with shaking hands. The screen flashed bright crimson.
EMERGENCY HEALTH ALERT: EDWARD BENNETT CRITICAL HEART RATE DETECTED: 42 BPM STATUS: SEVERE BRADYCARDIA / POTENTIAL CARDIAC EVENT
My heart hammered against my ribs. Forty-two beats per minute.
Ed’s normal resting heart rate was sixty-five. His cardiologist had explicitly warned us that if his rate ever dropped below fifty while conscious, it indicated either a severe heart block or a toxic reaction to his medication, requiring immediate emergency intervention.
I scrambled out of bed, my mind racing. I immediately dialed Ed’s cell phone number.
Ring... ring... ring...
It went straight to voicemail. "Hi, this is Ed. Leave a message."
"Ed! Answer the phone!" I cried into the receiver, my voice trembling. "Your watch is sending an emergency alert! Ed, please pick up!"
I hung up and instantly dialed Daniel’s cell phone. If anyone knew what was going on, it would be Daniel, who had been coordinating Ed’s temporary housing arrangements.
Ring... ring... ring...
No answer. It went straight to Daniel's professional voicemail: "You have reached Daniel Bennett. Please leave a detailed message..."
I didn't leave a message. I dropped the phone onto the bed, grabbed my purse, and checked the smartwatch app again.
CRITICAL HEART RATE DETECTED: 39 BPM
The number was dropping. Thirty-nine. That was lethal territory. If his heart slowed down any further, his blood pressure would collapse, leading to organ failure, unconsciousness, or cardiac arrest.
I didn't care about the divorce papers sitting on the kitchen table. I didn't care about Cassie, the thirty-six-year-old trainer, or the humiliation of forty-two years of marriage ending in a stroke of a pen. The man I had loved for more than four decades was dying somewhere across town, alone.
I ran out of the house, nearly tripping down the front steps, and flagged down a yellow taxi that was passing through our suburban neighborhood.
"Elm Street! The Grandview Apartments! Fast, please!" I yelled to the driver, sliding into the back seat and slamming the door.
The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror, seeing the terror written across my face, and pressed his foot down on the accelerator.
During the fifteen-minute drive across town, I sat with my eyes glued to the phone screen. The app provided real-time GPS tracking along with the heart rate telemetry.
38 BPM... 37 BPM... 36 BPM...
"Please, Ed," I whispered into the dark interior of the cab, pressing the phone against my chest as tears blurred my vision. "Please hold on. Don't die like this. Please don't die."
The taxi pulled up abruptly in front of the Grandview Apartments—a modern, glass-and-steel high-rise located in the downtown financial district. I threw a fifty-dollar bill at the driver without waiting for change, sprinted through the automatic glass doors of the lobby, and ran toward the elevators.
"Ma'am! You need to sign in!" the concierge called out from behind a sleek marble desk.
"My husband is having a heart attack in apartment 4B!" I screamed over my shoulder, not slowing down.
The concierge’s eyes widened, and he immediately reached for his desk phone to call emergency services.
I rode the elevator to the fourth floor, the numbers ticking up excruciatingly slowly. 2... 3... 4.
The doors slid open. I scrambled down the carpeted hallway, searching franticly for apartment 4B.
When I reached the door, I grabbed the brass handle, expecting it to be locked. To my surprise, the latch gave way with a soft click. The door was unlocked, resting open by a fraction of an inch.
I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
"Ed?" I called out, my voice cracking. "Ed!"
The apartment was cold and sterile, furnished with modern leather sofas and minimal decorations that felt completely devoid of personality. There was no sign of a young woman's touch—no gym bags, no vibrant clothes, no perfume.
I rushed into the kitchen, and my breath caught in my throat.
Ed was lying on his side on the cold kitchen tile, collapsed next to an overturned glass of water that had spilled across the floor. His skin was a terrifying shade of ash-gray, his lips tinged with a faint, bluish hue. His eyes were open, but they were glossy and unfocused, fluttering weakly as if he were fighting against an overwhelming wave of darkness.
A blue plastic pill organizer lay open near his limp right hand. White and pink capsules were scattered across the floor like spilled beads.
"Ed! Oh God, Ed!" I dropped to my knees beside him, wrapping my arms around his shaking shoulders. His skin felt clammy and ice-cold to the touch.
"M... Margaret?" he breathed, his voice barely an audible rasp. His eyes struggled to focus on my face. "You... you shouldn't... be here..."
"Quiet, don't talk," I sobbed, pulling my phone out and immediately dialing 911.
I put the phone on speaker and set it on the floor next to us while the dispatcher's voice came through: "911, what is your emergency?"
"My husband has collapsed!" I shouted, my hands frantically checking his weak, thready pulse at his neck. "His heart rate is down to thirty-six! He has a severe cardiac condition! He's conscious, but barely!"
"Stay calm, ma'am," the dispatcher said steadily. "Paramedics are already en route to your location. Is he breathing normally? Is he choking?"
"He's breathing, but it's shallow!" I replied, keeping one hand on Ed’s chest, feeling the weak, erratic rise and fall of his ribs.
While listening to the dispatcher’s instructions, my eyes swept across the kitchen floor, taking in the scene. I looked at the blue plastic pill organizer that lay open beside Ed's chest.
It was a weekly dispenser, divided into seven compartments: MON, TUE, WED, THU, FRI, SAT, SUN.
Ed’s heart medication—a high-potency beta-blocker designed to keep his blood pressure stable—was supposed to be taken once daily, strictly in the morning.
I looked closer at the dispenser.
The compartment marked MON (Monday) was completely empty. The compartment marked TUE (Tuesday) was completely empty.
I froze. A cold shock ran down my spine, arresting the breath in my lungs.
May you like
Today was Monday.
If Monday and Tuesday were both empty, it meant someone had taken two full, maximum-strength doses of his beta-blocker and administered them at once—a lethal overdose guaranteed to drive his heart rate into catastrophic failure.
