She decides to kill him. Slowly. Little by little. Every day she takes another step toward murder, toward freedom. She attends cooking classes and learns to make cheese cake, macaroni and cheese, cheese sauce, cheese balls, cheese enchiladas, cheese fondue. She tosses feta over salads, melts cheddar into quiche, and grates Parmesan onto vegetables. Occasionally, for a change, she feeds him Fettuccine Alfredo, with garlic cheese bread, and serves a cheese crepe for dessert. All the while she claims she is vegan, eating only beans, rice, fruits and vegetables.
He never suspects anything while he dominates and exerts his power over her, but then one day he clutches his chest, gasps for breath, falls to the soft cream carpet, his eyes wide and vacant, one hand outstretched, fingers splayed as if he is reaching for one final cheese doodle.
She leans over and tucks a small photo album under him, containing pictures of him eating a cheese dog at the ball park, nachos at the Cinco de Mayo festival, cheese and crackers at the Art and Wine celebration. She strolls into the kitchen, scrubs the cheese grater clean, deletes all the cheese recipes from her hard drive, takes her packed suitcase from the closet in the extra bedroom, and shuffles out the back door to his Lexus.
At a sunny resort in Belize, she meets a lactose-intolerant retired detective who becomes suspicious when he learns her husband has just died and she is showing no signs of grief.
Anyone think this is a good book idea?