Eleanor Mitchell stood by the living room window, gazing at the empty street. The evening was quiet, almost windless—one of those rare autumn nights when the city seems to freeze in anticipation of something. She was thirty-seven, and for the past five years she had been running the family business, a small chain of pharmacies her late mother had founded. Three locations in different parts of the city brought in steady income, and Eleanor was proud that she had managed not only to preserve the business but to expand it.
Nathan, her husband, returned from his business trip late on Friday evening. Eleanor heard the front door close, then the familiar footsteps on the stairs; the elevator in their building worked intermittently. When he entered, a strange smile played on his face, almost triumphant. “Hi, honey.” He set his suitcase down in the hallway and pulled out a large box tied with a satin ribbon. “I have a surprise for you.”
Eleanor raised her eyebrows in surprise. Nathan had never been known for generosity, and gifts from him were rare. In eleven years of marriage, she had grown accustomed to his practicality bordering on stinginess; he always said money needed to be saved, that it shouldn’t be spent on trifles. “What is this?” she asked, taking the box and feeling its pleasant weight.
“Open it.” Nathan took off his jacket and went into the kitchen, where he poured himself water from a pitcher. Eleanor carefully untied the ribbon and lifted the lid. Inside, neatly laid in thin white paper, was a dress—emerald green, with a deep neckline and an elegant cut. It was clearly expensive; the tag from a well-known brand confirmed it, and the price made Eleanor’s jaw drop.
“Nathan, this is…” She couldn’t find the words. “Where did you get this?”
“I was walking past a boutique downtown. Went in.” He shrugged as if they were talking about buying bread. “Thought you’d like it. You haven’t bought anything for yourself in a long time.”
That was true. Eleanor rarely spent money on herself. All her time went to work—solving endless questions with suppliers, accounting, inspections. But for Nathan to notice this himself and buy something like that, it wasn’t like him.
“Thank you.” She kissed him on the cheek, feeling a slight bewilderment. “It’s very beautiful.” Nathan smiled and went to change. Forty-one years old, tall, with graying temples beginning to show, he still looked attractive. He worked as a financial analyst at a trading company, earned well—but not enough to buy dresses for six hundred dollars, just like that.
The rest of the evening passed quietly. Nathan talked about the business trip, meetings with partners, negotiations, boring conferences. Eleanor listened with half an ear, thinking about the coming week; an inspection was expected at one of the pharmacies on Monday, and she needed to prepare documents.
On Saturday morning Nathan left for the office. He said he urgently needed to finish a report. Eleanor stayed home. She planned to sort through accumulated papers and perhaps try on the dress. It lay on the dresser in its box, still emerald and alluring, but she decided to postpone it until evening when she would have free time.
Around two in the afternoon there was a knock at the door. On the threshold stood Clare, Nathan’s sister—thirty-five years old, blonde with soft features. She worked as a kindergarten teacher and always complained about her small salary. Clare and Eleanor were friends, though they saw each other infrequently.
“Hi, Ella.” Clare walked into the apartment, taking off her light jacket. “I was passing by, decided to drop in. Is Nathan home?”
“No, at work.” Eleanor made tea, and they sat down in the kitchen. They talked about small things—about nephews, about the renovation Clare couldn’t finish in her two-bedroom apartment.
Then they moved to the living room, and Clare’s gaze fell on the box with the dress, still lying on the dresser. “Oh, what’s this?” She came closer and peeked inside.
“Nathan gave it to me,” Eleanor said with a smile. “Brought it from the business trip.”
Clare slowly approached the box and her eyes widened. “Ella… this is…” She ran her hand over the fabric. “This is a designer brand. I’ve only seen this in magazines. Can I—can I try it on? Please. I can only dream of something like this.”
There was such sincere enthusiasm in her voice that Eleanor laughed. “Of course. Try it on. Just be careful.” Clare ran to the bedroom to change.
A few minutes later she returned, fastening the zipper in the back. The dress fit her perfectly. Clare was slightly slimmer than Eleanor, but the difference was small; the emerald fabric beautifully set off her blonde hair. “How is it?” she asked, twirling in front of the hallway mirror and admiring herself.
“Perfect,” Eleanor nodded, watching her. Clare stepped closer to the mirror, examining the details of the cut—and suddenly her face contorted. She grabbed her throat and started coughing, dry, tearing coughs.
“What? What’s wrong with you?” Eleanor jumped up from the couch.
“Can’t breathe.” Clare stepped back from the mirror, her eyes filling with tears. The skin on her neck reddened, turned blotchy. “It burns. It burns so much. Take it off—take it off me!” Her voice broke into a scream.
Her hands clawed at the fabric, trying to pull the dress over her head, but the zipper was in the back and in panic Clare couldn’t find it. Eleanor rushed to her, found the clasp, and yanked the zipper down. The dress slipped to the floor, and Clare, gasping, kicked it away.
The coughing continued. Her face was covered with red spots. Her breathing became labored. “Clare, hang on. I’m calling an ambulance.” Eleanor grabbed the phone, dictated the address to the dispatcher, described the symptoms.
The operator advised opening a window and giving an antihistamine if available. Eleanor rushed to the medicine cabinet; she always kept several medications on hand in case of an attack. Her own allergy required constant readiness. “Here, drink this.” She handed Clare a tablet and a glass of water.
Clare swallowed with difficulty, still gasping. Gradually the cough began to subside, though the redness on her skin remained. Ten minutes later the ambulance arrived.
The paramedic—a woman about forty-five—examined Clare, measured her blood pressure, listened to her lungs. “Allergic reaction,” she stated. “Contact, judging by everything. Did you put something on?”
Clare nodded, pointing to the emerald fabric lying on the floor. “I just tried it on and immediately…”
The paramedic picked up the dress, smelled the fabric, frowned. “Chemical smell. Could be a dye or treatment. Have you had allergies before?”
“No, never,” Clare shook her head. “I don’t suffer from anything like that.”
The paramedic recorded data in the call card, gave recommendations—observation, antihistamines, and if it got worse, straight to the hospital. Hospitalization wasn’t required, but she needed to be alert.
When the ambulance left, Clare sat on the couch, still pale. “Ella, don’t wear this dress,” she said seriously. “There’s something wrong with it. I’ve never had a reaction like this.”
Eleanor nodded silently. She approached the dress lying on the floor and carefully picked it up, hooking it on a hanger. The fabric really did smell faintly chemical. How had she not noticed immediately? Because she hadn’t smelled it—she’d only looked at it and put it away on the dresser.
Clare left half an hour later, still a bit unsteady. Eleanor walked her to the door, promising to call that evening to check on her. Left alone, Eleanor returned to the living room and studied the dress under the light: quality fabric, expensive tailoring, a well-known brand—but the smell was definitely chemical.
Then a thought struck her that made her go cold inside. She herself had a severe allergy, confirmed by tests, with a risk of anaphylactic shock. Five years ago, after accidental contact with a certain dye in a new blouse, they had taken her to the ICU. Since then she had observed strict precautions, checked fabric compositions, avoided synthetic dyes.
Nathan knew about this. He had been there during that attack, had seen how they revived her, how she spent a week under medical observation—and now he had brought her a dress that caused such a reaction in Clare.
Eleanor sat on the couch, feeling her pulse quicken. Could it be coincidence? Could Clare just be sensitive to something in that particular fabric? But then why would Nathan—who never gave her expensive things—suddenly bring this particular dress? Why didn’t he check the composition, knowing her diagnosis?
She stood up, went to the dresser, and pulled the receipt from the box. She looked at it—and froze. Purchase date: the day before yesterday, Thursday. But Nathan had returned from the business trip only yesterday evening. He had left on Monday, and the trip was to another city a thousand miles away.
So the dress had been bought here in their city, not on a business trip.
Eleanor slowly sank back onto the couch, clutching the receipt. Nathan had lied. But why? She tried to call him; the phone was unavailable. She wrote a message: Call me. Urgent. There was no answer.
Eleanor went to the bedroom and opened the closet. Carefully, putting on rubber gloves, she packed the dress in a thick plastic bag, tied it, and put it on the top shelf, away from her clothes. Returning to the living room, she sat at the table, opened her medical record from the drawer, and found the entry from five years ago: anaphylactic reaction to a group dye; high risk of repeated shock; recommended to avoid contact with synthetic dyes; carry auto-injector at all times.
Nathan knew. He definitely knew.
The phone rang. Nathan.
“What happened?” His voice was irritated, hurried.
“Your sister was at our place. She tried on the dress. She had an attack. We called an ambulance.” Eleanor kept her voice even, restraining the tremor.
A pause. “What? What kind of attack?”
“Allergy. Contact. The paramedic said there’s a chemical composition in the fabric that caused a reaction.” Another pause—longer.
“Well, it happens. Clare is sensitive.” Nathan was clearly choosing his words. “Nothing serious, though.”
“Nathan, I have the same allergy. Only mine can end in the ICU. You remember, don’t you?”
“Of course, I remember.” He sighed. “Ella, it’s just an accident. I didn’t check the composition. Didn’t think. I’m sorry.”
“The dress was bought here in the city the day before yesterday. You were on a business trip.”
Silence became almost palpable.
“I asked an acquaintance to buy it,” he finally said. “Didn’t have time myself. What difference does it make?”
“What acquaintance?”
“Ella, I’m at work. I don’t have time. We’ll talk tonight, okay?” And he hung up.
Eleanor set the phone on the table and covered her face with her hands. Inside her, everything tightened with terrible suspicions. This couldn’t be an accident. Nathan—who knew about her allergy; who asked someone else to buy a dress; who lied about the business trip; and the dress that had nearly killed his sister.
What if she had tried it on?
The apartment was registered in Eleanor’s name. The pharmacies were her business. In case of her death, everything would pass to her husband as her first-priority heir. She had no will. She had always put off that question, telling herself she was still too young for such thoughts.
Eleanor stood and went to the window. Outside, it had grown dark. Streetlights lit up, illuminating deserted sidewalks. Somewhere out there in the city was the person who had bought the dress at Nathan’s request. Who was it? And most importantly—what had they planned?
Eleanor took her phone and dialed the number of her lawyer, David Harper. He had handled her mother’s family affairs, then helped her with business registration. Reliable and experienced, he had helped her out of difficult situations more than once.
“Mr. Harper, good evening. I need a consultation urgently.”
“Mrs. Mitchell, I’m listening.” His voice was calm, professional.
Eleanor briefly laid out the facts: the dress, Clare’s attack, the receipt with the wrong date, Nathan’s lie.
“And you think this isn’t accidental?” David clarified when she finished.
“I don’t know what to think, but I’m scared,” Eleanor admitted.
“Tomorrow is Sunday, but let’s meet Monday morning,” the lawyer suggested. “I’ll prepare a plan of action. And now the main thing is don’t touch this dress. Preserve it as is.”
“I already packed it.”
“Excellent. And one more thing—try not to be home alone if possible. Invite someone over.”
Eleanor hung up and looked around. The apartment that had always been her fortress, her refuge, suddenly seemed alien and cold.
Nathan returned late at night, around eleven. He entered quietly, undressed in the hallway, and went into the bedroom. Eleanor wasn’t sleeping; she lay staring at the ceiling.
“How’s Clare?” he asked, lying down beside her.
“Fine. I called. The medication helped.”
“That’s good.” He turned on his side, his back to her. “Good night.”
Eleanor didn’t answer. She listened to his breathing—steady, calm, as if nothing had happened—but the receipt with the date wouldn’t disappear, and neither would the chemical smell, and neither would Clare’s reaction.
Eleanor closed her eyes, knowing sleep wouldn’t come. Ahead was the night, and after it the meeting with the lawyer and the beginning of a path that would lead either to the truth or to something she was afraid even to think about.
Monday began with Eleanor calling Clare before eight in the morning. Her sister-in-law’s voice sounded tired but calm.
“How are you feeling?” Eleanor asked, pouring herself coffee in the kitchen.
“Better. The redness is almost gone. My throat doesn’t hurt, but I couldn’t sleep all night.” Clare sighed. “Ella, it was terrible. I thought I would suffocate.”
“Are you going to the doctor?”
“Yes. I made an appointment for today with an allergist. I want to check what it was. Maybe I’ve developed an allergy to something now.”
Eleanor paused, considering her next words. “Clare, ask the doctor to document the connection between the reaction and the dress officially. It’s important.”
“Why?”
“Just please ask. Say it was after contact with a new item and let the doctor record this as a possible allergen source.”
Clare agreed, though there was bewilderment in her voice.
Eleanor said goodbye and finished her coffee, staring at the clock. In an hour she was meeting with the lawyer. Nathan had left for work early as usual. At breakfast they hardly spoke. He read the news on his phone; she pretended to check her email. The atmosphere was tense, like a string ready to snap at the slightest touch.
David Harper’s office was located in the city center, in an old building with high ceilings and creaky parquet floors. The lawyer was forty-four, specialized in family disputes, inheritance cases, and protection of property rights. Graying hair, a strict suit, and an attentive gaze behind glasses—David inspired trust from the first minutes.
“Mrs. Mitchell, come in.” He pointed to the chair opposite his desk, piled with folders. Eleanor sat, placing her bag on her lap. David poured her water from a pitcher, settled into his chair, and opened a notebook. “Tell me everything from the beginning in detail.”
Eleanor started over: Nathan’s return from the business trip, the expensive dress, Clare trying it on, the terrible attack, the receipt with the wrong date, the lie about where it was purchased, Nathan’s strange behavior, and most importantly, Eleanor’s own allergy—an allergy Nathan knew perfectly well.
David listened without interrupting, making brief notes. When she finished, he looked thoughtfully toward the window.
“You think your husband could have deliberately brought you an item that could cause anaphylactic shock?” His voice was even, without a trace of condemnation or disbelief.
“I don’t know,” Eleanor said, clasping her hands. “But the facts speak for themselves. He lied about where he bought the dress. He asked someone to do it for him. And this dress almost killed his sister and could have definitely killed me.”
“Motive?” David asked.
“Money. The apartment. The business. Everything is in my name. There’s no will. In case of my death, he gets everything as a spouse.”
David nodded and wrote. “Good. Now I’ll explain what we can do legally. First, protect you. Second, document evidence. Third, eliminate the motive, if it really exists.” He pulled the notebook closer and began outlining a plan.
“Do you have the dress in safekeeping?”
“Yes. I packed it in a bag wearing gloves. Haven’t touched it since.”
“Excellent. We need an expert examination of the fabric—find out what specific chemical composition caused the reaction. For this we’ll either contact a private laboratory or go through the police if we file a report.”
“A report about what?” Eleanor felt her mouth go dry.
“About a possible attempt to cause harm to health. So far it sounds like an assumption, but if the examination shows the fabric contains a substance from the risk group for you and your husband knew about your allergy, that’s grounds for serious investigation.”
Eleanor nodded, feeling cold spread through her.
“But before going to the police, we need to strengthen the evidence base,” David continued. “First, a medical report on your sister-in-law’s reaction. Let the doctor document that the attack occurred after contact with a specific item.”
“I already asked Clare about this.”
“Good. Second, your own medical record with allergy history. Third, the receipt for the dress purchase with date and place. Fourth, we’ll try to find out who exactly bought this dress—store, loyalty card, surveillance cameras.”
Eleanor listened, trying to hold everything in her head.
“And what about the property?” she asked.
“This is the most important thing.” David raised a finger. “You need to immediately protect your assets. Execute a power of attorney for managing shares in the business and accounts—not to your husband but to a trusted person.”
“I have a partner, Gregory Barnes. We own the pharmacies together. He has a forty percent share.”
“That’ll work. Execute a temporary power of attorney to him. Also, I strongly recommend making a will. Specify who gets what in case of your death. Exclude automatic inheritance by the spouse if you have doubts about his intentions.”
A will. Eleanor felt herself break out in a cold sweat. She had thought of it as something distant, abstract, but now it had become real.
“This will eliminate the motive,” David explained. “If your husband planned something for money, he’ll understand that even in case of your death, he won’t get anything. This will either stop him or force him to act differently—and then we’ll be able to track it.”
“All right.” Eleanor nodded. “When can we do this? The will.”
“Anytime. We can go to a notary today. The power of attorney also today. The sooner the better.”
They spent another hour discussing details. David made a list of actions, scheduled timelines, explained legal nuances. When Eleanor left the office, she had a clear plan in her hands—and a fragile feeling that she controlled at least something.
The next step was meeting with Clare. They agreed to meet at a café near the clinic where Clare was going for her allergist appointment. Clare arrived on time, looked tired but healthy. The redness on her skin had indeed almost disappeared; only light traces remained on her neck.
“How are you feeling?” Eleanor hugged her.
“Better. But scary to remember.” Clare sat and ordered tea. “I never thought clothes could cause such a thing.”
Eleanor paused, choosing her words. “Clare, I need to tell you something. I have a severe allergy documented with risk of anaphylaxis. Nathan knows about this.”
Clare looked up, understanding flickering in her eyes. “You mean if you had tried on this dress, they would have taken you to the ICU—or worse.”
Silence stretched.
Clare went pale. “Ella, do you think Nathan… that he did it on purpose?”
“I don’t know, but the facts are strange. He lied about where he bought the dress, asked someone to do it, and this dress is dangerous for me.”
Clare covered her face with her hands. “Oh my God. This is my brother. I can’t believe it.”
“I don’t want to believe it either.” Eleanor squeezed her shoulder. “But I need your help. Ask the doctor to document that your reaction was connected to the dress officially in the records.”
“Okay.” Clare nodded, wiping her eyes.
“I’ll do it, and I’ll come with you,” Eleanor said.
The appointment took about forty minutes. The doctor, Dr. Rebecca Morrison, a calm middle-aged woman, examined Clare, asked many questions, and listened carefully to the story of the dress.
“You say the reaction started immediately after you put on the item?” she clarified, taking notes.
“Yes. Literally within a minute.” Clare nodded. “I approached the mirror and I started coughing, burning… couldn’t breathe.”
Dr. Morrison frowned. “Fabrics often retain traces of dyes, fixing compounds, antiseptic treatments. In people with increased sensitivity, contact with such substances can cause a sharp reaction. Have you had allergies before?”
“No. Never.”
“Then this was most likely an acute contact reaction to a chemical component in the fabric. I’ll document this in the records. Contact allergen is probable. The item is a potential source.”
Eleanor, sitting beside Clare, leaned forward. “Doctor, may I ask a question? I have a severe allergy with risk of anaphylaxis. My medical record documents a diagnosis—reaction to a group of dyes. This dress was intended for me, but Clare tried it on. Is there a possibility it contains that same kind of dye?”
Dr. Morrison looked at Eleanor carefully. “Quite possible. Azo dyes are widely used in the textile industry, especially for bright colors—emerald, red, blue. Do you have the item?”
“Yes. I kept it.”
“I recommend conducting a chemical analysis of the fabric. If they find a substance from your risk group, you absolutely cannot have contact with this thing.”
“Is it possible through examination to establish whether the substance was added deliberately?” Eleanor asked quietly.
The doctor thought. “I’m not a lawyer or a forensic expert, but if we’re talking about additional fabric treatment beyond standard, it can be noticeable by concentration or by atypical distribution. For this, a serious laboratory examination is needed.”
Eleanor nodded, feeling her insides tighten. So it could be checked. All that remained was to do it.
When they left the clinic, Clare took Eleanor’s hand. “What are you going to do?”
“Fight,” Eleanor answered simply. “I’m not going to die.”
The rest of the day was spent on business. Eleanor met with a notary and executed a will: she specified that her share in the business would go to her partner Gregory Barnes, and the apartment to her cousin. Nathan wasn’t mentioned anywhere. She also executed a power of attorney for managing finances and assets to Gregory in case anything happened to her.
In the evening, when Nathan came home, Eleanor was already in bed, pretending to sleep. She heard him moving around the apartment, looking for something in the kitchen, then stepping into the bedroom and standing at the door for a long time, watching her. She didn’t move, clutching her phone under the blanket. On the screen was an open message from David: Tomorrow, we’re submitting a request to the store with the receipt. We’ll try to find out who bought the dress.
Nathan lay down beside her but didn’t touch her. He lay silently, breathing evenly, but Eleanor felt tension emanating from him.
“You’re not asleep?” he suddenly asked.
She didn’t answer.
“I know you’re not asleep.” His voice was quiet, almost indifferent. “You always do this when you’re angry.”
Eleanor opened her eyes and turned to him. “I’m not angry. I’m trying to understand.”
“Understand what?”
“Why you lied about the dress.”
Nathan sighed heavily. “I didn’t lie. I asked an acquaintance to buy it because I didn’t have time. What difference does it make who bought it?”
“Who is this acquaintance?”
“A colleague at work. Vanessa. She understands fashion. I asked her to help.”
“Vanessa.” For the first time he’d named a name. “How long have you known her?”
“A few years. Ella, what’s with these questions?”
Eleanor sat up and turned on the nightstand lamp. “Because this dress almost killed your sister and could have killed me. You know about my allergy.”
Nathan sat up too, his face tense. “I didn’t check the fabric composition. It was a mistake, I admit. But you’re turning this into some kind of conspiracy theory.”
“Then give me Vanessa’s contact. I want to talk to her. Find out where she bought the dress, whether she checked the composition.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I’m not going to drag her into our family squabbles.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s stupid.” He raised his voice, then restrained himself. “Ella, calm down. It was an accident. Clare is better. You’re fine. Throw away this damn dress and forget about it.”
Eleanor looked at him and felt the puzzle pieces clicking into place. He didn’t want to give the contact. He was protecting this Vanessa. He was nervous.
“I won’t throw away the dress,” she said quietly. “I’ll keep it, just in case.”
Nathan got out of bed and paced the room. “You’re going crazy,” he threw out, then left the bedroom, slamming the door.
Eleanor sat in the darkness lit only by the lamp and thought: Vanessa—a colleague who “understands fashion,” who bought the dress at his request, whom he protected so fiercely. Tomorrow David would request data from the store. Tomorrow she would know the truth. For now, all that remained was to wait and hope she wasn’t mistaken—that this wasn’t paranoia but an attempt to protect her life.
Outside the window a light wind blew, swaying the branches. Eleanor lay back down, pulling the blanket up to her chin. Sleep wouldn’t come, but she closed her eyes, counting the beats of her heart. Somewhere out there in this city was a woman named Vanessa—and tomorrow Eleanor would find out who she was.
Tuesday began with David Harper calling Eleanor at nine in the morning. She was already sitting in her office at the main pharmacy, going through documents for the upcoming inspection, but her thoughts were not about work.
“Mrs. Mitchell, there’s news,” the lawyer said briskly. “I sent a request to the store with the receipt. The response came faster than expected. They have a loyalty system, and the purchase was registered with a card.”
Eleanor felt her pulse quicken. “And the buyer’s name?”
“Vanessa Pierce. Thirty-three years old. Registered at an address in the Riverside District. Works as a stylist consultant at a company that supplies clothing to retail chains.”
Vanessa Pierce. So Nathan hadn’t lied about the name—but everything else.
“Is she really his colleague?” Eleanor asked.
“Checking now. Give me a couple of hours. I’ll try to find out more details. But the fact is, she registered the purchase in her own name and used her loyalty card. This is documented.”
“Good. What next?”
“Now we need to connect everything together. Do you have the medical report on Clare?”
“Yes. She gave me a copy yesterday evening. The doctor documented a contact allergic reaction with an indication of the item as the probable source.”
“Excellent. Your medical record with allergy history?”
“I have everything.”
“Then we’re going to the police today,” David said decisively. “While the trail is fresh. The longer we drag this out, the harder it will be to prove the connection of events.”
Eleanor froze. Police. Official report. This was no longer preparation; it was real action.
“Are you sure this is necessary?” Her voice trembled.
“Mrs. Mitchell, look at the facts objectively,” the lawyer replied, firm but not harsh. “Your husband brings you an item potentially deadly for you. He knows about your allergy. He lied about where it was purchased. He involved a third party—a woman who understands fabrics and has access to suppliers. He has a financial motive: your assets. If you were my client in any other case, I’d say this looks like preparation for a crime.”
Preparation for a crime. For her murder.
“All right,” Eleanor exhaled. “What time are we meeting?”
“At two at the police station. Bring all documents: receipt, medical reports, and prepare to tell everything in detail.”
After the call Eleanor sat motionless, staring out the window. Outside, ordinary city scenes drifted by—pedestrians, cars, pigeons on the sidewalk. Life went on as usual, and her world was collapsing.
Her phone vibrated: a message from Nathan. Coming home late tonight. Don’t wait for dinner. Short, without explanation. Before, she wouldn’t have paid attention. Now every word felt suspicious.
At one-thirty Eleanor went home to get the dress. The apartment greeted her with silence. She opened the closet and took the bag from the top shelf. The dress lay inside, still emerald and beautiful—deadly beautiful. Eleanor put the bag into a large tote, added a folder with documents, and left.
On the way to the station she stopped more than once, doubting herself. Was she doing the right thing? Maybe this was paranoia. Maybe Nathan had simply made a mistake—hadn’t thought. But then she remembered his face when he refused to give Vanessa’s contact, his irritation, his defensive reaction, and the doubts receded.
David was waiting at the entrance to the station. The building was typical—gray, with metal doors.
“Ready?” the lawyer asked.
“No,” Eleanor answered honestly. “But let’s go.”
They were met by Detective Marcus Reed, a man about forty in uniform. He led them to an office, offered them seats, and placed a blank protocol form on the table.
“I’m listening,” he said, looking at Eleanor.
Eleanor began slowly, trying not to miss details: her husband’s return, the gift, Clare trying it on, the terrible attack, her own allergy, Nathan’s lie, the oddities with the purchase. David periodically supplemented, clarified legal moments, laid documents on the table.
Reed listened, taking notes. When Eleanor finished, he looked thoughtfully at the bag with the dress.
“You understand the accusations are serious?” he asked at last. “You’re essentially claiming your husband tried to harm you using your allergy.”
“I’m claiming the facts look suspicious,” Eleanor corrected quietly. “And I’m asking for an investigation.”
“What specific harm was caused?”
“To his sister—an allergic reaction documented by medical examination. To me personally—none yet, because I didn’t wear the dress. But the potential threat is obvious.”
Reed nodded. “All right. We’ll need to conduct an examination of the item—check the fabric composition, presence of chemical substances. Also question witnesses: your relative, the doctor, the store salesperson, and your husband.”
“He denies everything,” Eleanor said. “Says it’s an accident.”
“We’ll check that.” Reed took the bag. “I’ll send the item for examination to the crime lab. It will take time—one to three weeks.”
David handed him a list of questions for the examination they had prepared. Reed scanned it and nodded approvingly. “Competently compiled. We’ll use it as a basis for the order.”
The next hour was paperwork. Eleanor signed protocols, gave explanations, answered questions. When everything was finished, Reed walked them to the exit.
“We’ll take this case to work,” he said in parting. “But be prepared: the investigation can go either way. If the examination doesn’t show anything criminal, the case will be closed. If it does, interrogations will begin.”
“I understand,” Eleanor nodded.
Outside, she felt a strange relief. The first step was taken. Now she wasn’t alone with her suspicions; now the system was working.
David walked her to the car. “You did great,” he said. “Hang in there. And one more thing—I strongly recommend blocking your husband’s ability to make transactions with joint property.”
“How do I do that?”
“Through court. You can impose a security measure—a ban on alienation of property until circumstances are clarified. This will protect your assets during the investigation.”
“Do it,” Eleanor decided.
That evening she came home and found Nathan in the living room. He sat on the couch staring at his phone, but when she entered, he looked up.
“Where were you?” he asked.
“I had things to do,” Eleanor answered shortly, taking off her jacket.
“What things until eight in the evening? My things?” Nathan stood and came closer. On his face was irritation—and something else, too: anxiety. “Ella, what’s going on? You’ve been acting strange the last few days, avoiding me, not talking normally.”
She looked him in the eyes. Once she had loved this man. Eleven years ago they had married, dreamed of children, made plans. What went wrong? When did he start seeing her not as a wife but as a source of income?
“I was at the police station,” she said calmly. “I filed a report.”
Nathan’s face went pale. “What? What report?”
“About a possible attempt to cause harm to health through the dress you gave me.”
“Are you serious?” Nathan’s voice trembled. “You filed a police report against me?”
“I asked for an investigation. If everything is clean, as you say, you have nothing to fear.”
Nathan ran a hand through his hair, turned away, then turned back sharply. “You’ve lost your mind. Because of some allergy of Clare’s, you decided I want to kill you.”
“You lied about the purchase. You involved Vanessa, who understands fabrics. You know about my allergy and didn’t check the composition. All this looks suspicious.”
“This looks like paranoia,” he snapped. “Ella, come to your senses. I’m your husband.”
“That’s exactly why I’m so scared,” she said quietly.
Nathan froze, staring at her. Then he turned and went into the bedroom, slamming the door. Eleanor stood in the living room, listening to him throw something around, curse under his breath. Ten minutes later he came out with a small bag.
“I’m leaving,” he said. “Can’t be here.”
“Where?”
“To a friend’s. Or a hotel. I don’t care. I need to think.”
He left, and the apartment plunged into silence.
Eleanor sank onto the couch. A shiver ran through her—fear, relief, fatigue all at once. She dialed David.
“Mrs. Mitchell, what happened?”
“Nathan found out about the report. He left.”
“Expected,” the lawyer paused. “That’s even good. Less risk for you—but be careful. He might try to withdraw money, sell something. I’ll file a motion for security measures tomorrow.”
“Thank you.”
“Hang in there. You’re doing everything right.”
Eleanor hung up and lay down on the couch without undressing. She was alone in the apartment that no longer seemed safe, but now she had protection—legal, medical, documentary—and it gave her strength.
The next day David filed a motion in court to freeze the spouse’s joint property: the apartment and accounts, securing property interests. The judge would consider the application within three days.
Nathan didn’t appear. He called once, spoke dryly, demanded she stop this circus. Eleanor replied there was no circus—there was a lawful investigation—and hung up.
Clare came that evening. They sat in the kitchen, drank tea, and Clare cried quietly. “I can’t believe it’s my brother,” she whispered. “We grew up together. He was good.”
“People change,” Eleanor said, hugging her. “Money changes people. If it’s true, if he really wanted to…”
Clare didn’t finish. “I’ll never forgive him.”
On Friday the response came from the court: the motion was granted. The apartment and accounts were frozen for three months, until the investigation was completed. Nathan couldn’t sell, gift, or mortgage the property. He had lost his main leverage.
When Eleanor called to inform him, he was silent for a long time, then said only, “You’ll regret this.”
“Is that a threat?” she asked.
“It’s a fact.” Then silence.
Eleanor stared at the phone screen with his name and felt something finally tear inside. Eleven years of marriage—hopes, plans—had turned into a cold war where everyone defended their territory. But she wasn’t going to give up. Her life was at stake, and no threats would make her back down.
The motive had disappeared. Nathan would no longer get anything, even in case of her death. The scheme—if it existed—had collapsed. All that remained was to wait for the examination results and learn the truth.
The examination took two and a half weeks. Eleanor lived as if on a volcano, every day expecting a call, every night waking at the slightest rustle. Nathan never returned home, but he called regularly—sometimes with demands to stop the spectacle, sometimes with attempts to make peace, promising he would explain everything. Eleanor didn’t believe a word.
David worked on all fronts: requested surveillance video from the store on the day of purchase, got documentation for Vanessa Pierce’s loyalty card, pulled information about her workplace. The picture was gradually coming together—and it wasn’t rosy.
On Wednesday, seventeen days after filing the report, Marcus Reed called. “Mrs. Mitchell, we have the examination results.” His voice was serious. “Can you come to the station, preferably with your lawyer?”
Eleanor’s heart stopped. “What did they find?”
“Better discuss it in person. Will an hour work?”
The hour dragged painfully. Eleanor called David and they agreed to meet at the station. In the taxi, dozens of scenarios tore through her head. What if the examination showed nothing? What if she’d been wrong? But when she and David entered Reed’s office and saw his face, it was clear the results were serious.
“Sit down.” Reed pointed to chairs and laid a thick folder in front of him. “The examination report is ready. I’ll read the main conclusions.” He opened the folder, took out stamped pages, and began in a professional, detached tone.
“The subject examined was an item: women’s dress, emerald green color, size six, manufacturer: luxury-class brand. During chemical analysis of the fabric, it was established: traces of an azo group dye were found in the material fibers—specifically Disperse 17, as well as its derivatives. The concentration of the substance exceeds regulatory indicators for textile products by three times.”
Eleanor felt her blood run cold. Azo dye—exactly the group she was allergic to.
“In addition,” Reed continued, “traces of additional treatment with an antiseptic compound based on formaldehyde were found on the fabric surface. The distribution of the substance is uneven, which indicates secondary treatment of the item after production.”
David frowned. “You mean the dress was treated additionally after it was manufactured?”
“Exactly. The experts note such concentration and method of application are not characteristic of factory treatment. This looks like deliberate enhancement of the fabric’s potentially dangerous properties.”
Silence filled the office.
“What does this mean legally?” David asked.
“It means we have grounds to suspect deliberate actions aimed at creating a threat to life and health,” Reed said, closing the folder. “The qualification is preliminary so far, but we’re considering charges of attempted grievous bodily harm—possibly even attempted murder if we prove awareness of consequences and direct intent.”
Eleanor closed her eyes. Attempted murder. Her husband—the man she’d lived with for eleven years.
“What next?” Her voice sounded hollow.
“Next, we summon your husband and Vanessa Pierce for interrogation. We need to establish who exactly treated the dress and for what purpose. We have video from the store cameras. Pierce bought the dress personally. This is documented. We’re also checking her work contacts. She really works as a buyer—has access to fabric and chemical suppliers.”
“So she could have gotten these substances,” David clarified.
“Theoretically, yes. She has connections in the textile industry. She knows where and what to buy. But we must prove she really did it and that she acted on your husband’s instructions.”
Eleanor lifted her head. “What about the connection between Nathan and Vanessa?”
Reed opened another folder. “We checked. Phone records show regular contact between them over the past eight months: daily calls, correspondence. We requested a phone data dump. There are many personal conversations there. They were formerly colleagues, but the nature of communication goes beyond work relations.”
A mistress. Eleanor had suspected it. Now she had confirmation: eight months—almost a year.
“We also checked the financial side,” Reed added. “Your husband has no property of his own. The apartment, business shares, main accounts—everything is in your name. In case of your death, he would receive the inheritance as a first-priority spouse. The motive is obvious.”
David wrote, nodding. “When are the interrogations scheduled?”
“We’ll summon Nathan Mitchell tomorrow. Vanessa Pierce the day after. We want to hear his version first, then compare it with her testimony.”
Leaving the station, Eleanor couldn’t hold back. She stopped by the building wall and cried quietly, restrained, but tears rolled down her cheeks anyway. David handed her a handkerchief without a word.
“You’re holding up well,” he said. “The worst is behind us. Now we have evidence.”
“He really wanted to kill me,” Eleanor whispered. “My husband—for money and a mistress.”
“We’ll prove it, and he’ll answer,” David said.
The next day Nathan appeared for interrogation at two. He came thinner, confused, in ordinary jeans and a shirt, looking tired and nervous. Marcus Reed sat across from him, turned on the recorder, and began formalities—date, time, identity.
Nathan answered monosyllabically, staring at the table.
“Mr. Mitchell, are you aware of the reason you’ve been invited for interrogation?”
“Yes. My wife filed a report.”
“Correct. Please tell us how you acquired the dress you gave your wife on September twenty-first.”
Nathan licked his lips. “I asked an acquaintance to buy it. Vanessa Pierce. She works as a stylist, understands fashion. I was busy. Didn’t have time myself.”
“Why specifically a dress? Why specifically this brand?”
“I wanted to do something nice for my wife. She hadn’t bought anything for herself in a long time.”
“Did you know about your wife’s health condition? About her allergy?”
A pause. Nathan looked up. “I knew, but I didn’t think the dress could be dangerous.”
“Did you check the fabric composition before purchase?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Didn’t think about it.”
Reed leaned forward. “Mr. Mitchell, the examination showed the dress fabric contains a dye in high concentration—exactly the type of substance your wife has a severe allergy to, with risk of anaphylactic shock. Also found was additional treatment with formaldehyde. Can you explain this?”
Nathan’s face went pale. “I… I don’t know. I didn’t treat the dress. Vanessa bought it at the store, handed it to me in the box. I just gave it to Eleanor.”
“When did Vanessa give you the dress?”
“Thursday evening. I came back from the business trip on Friday, but met with her before that.”
“So you were in the city already on Thursday?”
Nathan hesitated. “I came back earlier. A day earlier. But I didn’t go home right away.”
“Why not?”
“I was tired. Stopped at a hotel.”
“Which one?”
“On Riverside Avenue. Don’t remember the name.”
Reed wrote. “Do you have a receipt from this hotel?”
“No. Paid cash.”
“Mr. Mitchell, what is the nature of your relationship with Vanessa Pierce?”
“Work. We’re colleagues.”
“Only colleagues?”
The pause dragged. “We are friends.”
“Your phone records show daily communication. Is this usual for colleagues?”
“We have a close relationship, but this has nothing to do with the dress.”
“It does,” Reed said firmly. “Because we’re considering the version that the dress was deliberately treated with dangerous substances for the purpose of harming your wife. And you and Vanessa Pierce are the only ones who had access to this dress before it got to the victim.”
“This is absurd.” Nathan jumped up. “I didn’t treat any dress. I just wanted to give a gift. Then Vanessa did it. I don’t know. Maybe she bought a defective one. Maybe they made a mistake at the store, but it wasn’t deliberate.”
“They made a mistake at the store?” Reed repeated. “Do you understand that if intent is proven, you face charges of attempted murder?”
Nathan lowered his head, his face gray.
“I didn’t want to kill her,” he muttered.
“But you wanted to get her property,” Reed said.
Silence.
“Mr. Mitchell, answer the question.”
“We had financial problems,” Nathan finally admitted. “I was in debt. Needed money.”
“How much?”
“Twenty-five thousand.”
“Credit cards? Private loans?”
“Yes.”
“And you decided your wife’s death would solve your problems.”
“No.” Nathan hit the table with his fist. “I wasn’t planning to kill her. I just—” He fell silent, realizing he’d said too much.
“You thought what, Mr. Mitchell?”
A long minute passed. Then Nathan said quietly, “I want a lawyer. I won’t say anything more without a lawyer.”
The interrogation ended there.
The next day they summoned Vanessa Pierce. A woman about thirty-three entered the office—slender, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, dressed stylishly but conservatively, beautiful and self-confident. Only her eyes betrayed nervousness.
Reed completed the formalities and began.
“Ms. Pierce, are you acquainted with Nathan Mitchell?”
“Yes. We work in the same field.”
“What field exactly?”
“I’m a stylist consultant. He’s a financial analyst at a trading company. Our companies cooperate.”
“Do you communicate closely?”
Vanessa paused. “We are dating. We’re in a relationship.”
“A romantic relationship?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“About a year. Maybe a little less.”
“Nathan is married.”
“I know.”
“Do you know his wife?”
“No. We’ve never met.”
“But you know he’s married to Eleanor Mitchell, who owns a pharmacy business and an apartment.”
“Yes,” Vanessa said. “He told me.”
Reed flipped through papers. “On September twentieth, you bought a women’s dress at a boutique on Madison Avenue for six hundred dollars. Correct?”
“Correct.”
“At whose request?”
“Nathan asked. He said he wanted to give it to his wife.”
“Didn’t this seem strange to you? A lover asking you to buy a gift for his wife.”
Vanessa shrugged. “He explained he wanted to make amends, improve relations. I agreed to help.”
“Did you choose the dress yourself?”
“No. Nathan showed me a photo. Said it had to be exactly like that. I found it in the store and bought it. And then… then I gave it to him. He picked it up that same evening.”
“Ms. Pierce, you work with fabrics. Do you know what azo dyes are?”
A pause. Vanessa tensed. “Yes. It’s a group of dyes used in textiles.”
“Do you know some of them are dangerous for people with allergies?”
“Yes. I’ve heard.”
“Do you know Nathan’s wife has a severe allergy specifically to azo dyes?”
Vanessa went pale. “No. Nathan didn’t tell me that.”
“Didn’t tell you,” Reed echoed. “Or do you prefer to forget?”
“I didn’t know,” Vanessa repeated firmly.
“All right. Then explain. Why does the dress contain azo dye in triple concentration and have traces of additional formaldehyde treatment?”
Vanessa’s face twisted. “I don’t know. I bought it at the store. It was in a box with tags. I didn’t do anything to it.”
“Do you have access to chemical substances for fabric treatment?”
“I have contacts with suppliers, but I don’t do treatment. That’s not my specialization.”
“But theoretically, you could get the necessary substances.”
“Theoretically, many people could,” Vanessa said. “But I didn’t do it.”
Reed wrote, then lifted his eyes. “Ms. Pierce, do you understand you’re under suspicion of complicity in attempted murder?”
Her hands trembled. “I didn’t do anything. I just bought a dress at the request of a man I love. If it turned out to be dangerous, I didn’t know.”
