The knife was on the table. The gun was in the drawer. Poison in the decanter. And the beef. And the soup. Glass was in the ice cream. The ceiling beams were weakened. The carpet had been loosened at the top stairs. The gas was slowly leaking. The lightning rod was wet. The railing had been compromised. The dog had late-stage rabies. The grandfather clock was delicately balanced next to the head of bed. The pedestal of the statue overhanging the porch had been replaced with moistened cardboard, and the front stairs were completely undermined. There were sharks in the bathtub. There was acid in the sauna. Inside each and every fingertip of each and every glove was a pin of frozen strychnine. The ghosts had been insulted. The Gods had been offended. The hit men from Philly would arrive at 3:47. There was grease on the floor near the window. In the bottom of the boat there was a hole. Warning signals where the train tracks crossed the road had been disabled. The asp was in the hatbox. The toaster was in the water. Insecure mobsters had received brief notes questioning their manhood. The sidewalk was uneven. Everything within reach was a choking hazard, and everyone who knew the Heimlich Maneuver had been fired. The Covid tests were counterfeit. The bamboo in the tiger trap was sharp. The cattle more than ready to stampede. The car's brake cables had been expertly cut. The edge was jagged. The night was dark. The bridge was out.
Arthur died of natural causes.
“That asshole.” thought Helen.