Natasha's Stance
I woke up with my diary in my hand and yesterday's entry screaming at me: “THEY KNOW. BE CAREFUL.”
I didn't remember writing it.
The fog in my head was thicker than usual, and for the first time, I couldn't tell if it was the disease or the drugs or pure terror.
Margaret had given me a silver pen yesterday, an elegant, expensive-looking pen.
“Keep it with you always,” she had said. “Click it twice to record. It'll help you remember.”
I slipped it into my pocket, clicking it twice as I headed downstairs.
Michelle arrived early, before David left for work. They were in the kitchen together when I came downstairs, and their conversation stopped abruptly.
“Good morning, Tasha!” Her brightness seemed aggressive. “How are you feeling? You look tired.”
“I'm fine.”
David looked at me over his coffee cup. “Michelle told me you had a confused episode yesterday. You asked her the same questions three times.”
I didn't remember asking her anything three times. But that was the trap; I could never be certain what was real anymore.
“Did I? I'm sorry, Michelle.”
“It's okay.” She touched my arm with false sympathy. “It's not your fault.”
After David left, Michelle handed me the pill organizer. But this time, I noticed something I had missed before. Somehow, the pills looked slightly different, larger.
“Michelle, these pills look different.”
Her smile didn't waver. “Dr. Harrison adjusted your dosage. It'll help with the confusion.”
This was good. At least they didn't know that I had switched doctors. Perhaps I should keep going to see Dr. Harrison to make it look more real.
Too bad my thoughts can't be recorded. I have to remember this on my own.
“I want to call him.”
“Of course! But he's in surgery all day. I can have him call you tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. Always tomorrow. Always one more day of poison.
I took the pills, pretended to swallow, and hid them as usual. But Michelle didn't leave right away. She watched me, waited.
“Open your mouth,” she said softly.
My heart stopped.
“What?”
“I said open your mouth, Tasha. I want to make sure you swallowed the pills.”
We stared at each other, all pretense gone.
“Open your mouth or I'll call David and tell him you're refusing medication. That's grounds for immediate intervention.”
I opened my mouth slowly. She looked inside, saw it was empty, and her face changed.
“Where are the pills, Natasha?”
I blinked at her, letting genuine fear creep into my voice. “What pills? Michelle, you're scaring me.”
“Don't play games with me!” She grabbed my arm, harder than necessary. “The pills I just gave you… where are they?”
“I've taken them. What are you talking about?” I asked, my voice trembling. “Michelle, are you okay? You're acting crazy.”
Her face flushed with rage. “Stop lying! I know you haven't been taking them.”
“Why are you yelling at me?” I backed away, making sure the fear showed on my face. “What's wrong? Michelle, why are you so obsessed with my medications? Why do you care so much if I take them? They are just vitamins.”
“Because it's my job to…”
“Your job?” I let my voice break. “Your job is to assist with my schedule, not force pills down my throat! You're grabbing me, yelling at me…” I touched my arm where she'd gripped it. “Why are you being so aggressive?”
The kitchen door swung open, and David walked back in. “I forgot my phone. What's all the shouting?”
Michelle turned to him, frantic. “David, she's been faking! She didn't swallow her medications! She's been spitting them out and lying to us!”
He looked between us, his face neutral. “What happened?”
“I gave her the pills, and when I asked her to check, they were gone! She's been pretending this whole time!”
I let tears well up in my eyes. “David, I don't understand what's happening. Michelle is accusing me of things I didn't do. She grabbed my arm… Look!" I showed him the red marks. “She seems so angry with me. What did I do wrong?”
His eyes narrowed at Michelle. “Did you actually see her spit out the pills?”
“No, but…”
“Did you see them in her hand? On the floor?”
“No, but they were in her mouth, and now they're gone!”
I moved closer to David, seeking protection. “Darling, I'm so confused. Why does Michelle care so much about my pills? She's been so intense about them lately, watching me so closely.” I turned to look at Michelle, my voice soft and wounded. “And the way you just spoke to David… your tone was so intimate, like you're closer to him than you are to me.”
David shot Michelle a warning look, his jaw tightening.
“I'm your assistant!” Her voice was shrill now. “Of course I care about your health!”
“But you hurt me,” I whispered, showing him my wrist again. “Why would my assistant hurt me? Why would she be so aggressive about pills?”
Just as David opened his mouth to respond, just as Michelle stepped forward to defend herself, I let my face go slack. Confusion washed over my face like a wave. I blinked several times, then smiled brightly at Michelle as if seeing her for the first time.
“Michelle! Oh good, you're here! Do you have my morning vitamins?” I looked around the counter. “I haven't taken them yet.” I turned to David with fresh brightness. “Darling! Good morning! I thought you'd already left for work.”
I moved to kiss his cheek like none of the previous conversation had happened.
The silence was absolute.
Michelle stared at me, her mouth opening and closing like a drowning fish.
David's face was a mask, but I could see the gears turning behind his eyes. Was I faking the confusion, or had I genuinely forgotten the last five minutes?
“Did I… say something wrong?” I asked, looking between them with perfect innocence. “Why is everyone so quiet?”
David recovered first, his voice normal. “No, darling. Everything's fine. Michelle was just leaving.”
After Michelle fled and David finally left for real, I sat at the kitchen table and clicked the pen to stop recording. My hands were shaking, but from adrenaline, not fear.
I had just given them exactly what they wanted to see; proof that I was losing my mind.
But I had something they didn't know about: every word recorded on Margaret's pen.
I pulled out my phone and texted the group chat with Margaret, Adrian, and Samuel: "They're getting suspicious. We need to move up the timeline. How soon can we execute?"
Margaret's response came immediately: "Steinway Hall is confirmed for this Saturday. We will go public in three days."
I just had three days to hold it together, to keep playing the confused, deteriorating wife while preparing to destroy them both.
Three days until I showed them exactly what happened when you underestimated Natasha Volkov.
I looked down at my wrist where Michelle had grabbed me. The red marks were already fading, but I photographed them anyway. Every piece of evidence mattered.
My phone buzzed with another text, this time from an unrecognized number: "Ms. Volkov, this is Noah Peters from the New York Times Arts section. I heard rumors about a special performance at Steinway Hall this weekend. Would love to discuss. Very interested in your story."
I smiled. Margaret had been busy.
I typed back: "Saturday at 8 PM. Come prepared for the performance of a lifetime and bring your fact-checkers."
They were planning to have me committed on Monday.
But on Saturday, I would destroy them first.
I went to my piano and sat down, my fingers finding the keys like coming home. I began to play one of "Michelle's" compositions, the one that had won critical acclaim last year, the one that had her name in all the credits.
The irony was beautiful. I was playing my own stolen work in the house of the man who stole it, and he had no idea I knew.
I played until my fingers ached, until the music drove out the fear and the rage and left only cold determination.
Three more days.
Then I would show them what happened when you tried to bury Natasha Volkov alive.
They thought taking away my music was killing me.
They had no idea my music was about to kill them.
