Gently wrapping a scarf around her father’s neck, she asks, “You okay, Dad?”
“I-I’m losing it, aren’t I?” He replies with a tremor in his voice.
“Don’t say that. You know what they say? You get worse before you get better. How about you come inside and I’ll make you a nice mug of Hot Cocoa?”
“I-in a minute.”
A few minutes later, pushing the door open, she screams, “Dad!” Slumped over in his chair, her father is dead. Slowly and smiling, she fishes out the small vial of arsenic from her pocket. “Guess I won’t be needing this anymore.”