# Chapter 72: The Confession Under a Knife
Hello everyone, it’s me again! How are you all doing? Today I will continue to walk with you and review Chapter 72 of *The Housemaid’s Secret*. This chapter grips you by the throat and refuses to let go—so brace yourselves, because what waits inside is dark, tense, and absolutely haunting.
When we left off, Wendy was stumbling into a dim, blood-soaked world that looked like the aftermath of a nightmare. Folding chairs on either side of a table, a single phone screen casting pale light, and there she was—Marybeth, sitting like a stone-cold judge, her trench coat stained with Russell’s blood. Her lips were drawn into a thin line, her usually soft blue eyes now hard as daggers. She wasn’t just angry. She was transformed. Terrifying.
Wendy collapsed into a chair, her legs giving out before her mind could catch up. And yet, behind the fear, she noticed one crucial detail: Marybeth hadn’t killed her yet. That meant she needed Wendy alive—for now. And that small sliver of time was something Wendy could use.
“What do you want?” Wendy asked.
Marybeth blinked, her eyes glowing from deep, hollow sockets. Then came the question that cut straight through the air like a blade: “How long have you been sleeping with my husband?”
Wendy thought about lying. But one look into Marybeth’s eyes told her that playing games with this woman would be a fatal mistake. So she confessed. Ten months. Ten months of sneaking, lying, and hiding right under Marybeth’s nose.
Marybeth’s voice cracked as she spoke of twenty years of marriage—twenty years of love, of imperfection, of loyalty—all unraveling the moment Wendy entered Russell’s life. Wendy tried to offer weak apologies and excuses: “It’s not like we planned it.” She even tried to placate her by saying Russell loved Marybeth very much. But that only made Marybeth erupt.
“Then why was he sleeping with you?”
Wendy tried to explain that Russell was having doubts, that he wanted to go back to his wife. But Marybeth wasn’t interested in reconciliation. She had crossed a line long ago. She had murdered her husband. There was no going back now.
Then the conversation turned darker. Marybeth’s ice-cold eyes locked onto Wendy’s. “And Doug… You killed him, didn’t you? You and Russell.”
Wendy opened her mouth to deny it, but then saw that look in her eyes. It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation already proven true. So Wendy admitted it. “Yes, I did.”
For a split second, Marybeth’s eyes softened with tears. She spoke of Doug Garrick—the best man she knew, like a brother to her. Wendy offered a quiet, hollow apology, but Marybeth exploded. “Sorry? You didn’t cut in front of him in line at the movie theater. You murdered him!”
Wendy pressed her lips together. Nothing she could say would ever make it right. But even so, she thought to herself: *I don’t deserve to die here.*
Then her eyes drifted toward the knife in Marybeth’s right hand—wet with Russell’s blood. Could she grab it? Marybeth wasn’t in peak physical condition. But the risk was enormous, and Wendy knew she needed to buy time.
“What do you want from me?” she asked.
Marybeth reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a piece of white paper. Then a pen. She slid them both across the table. The command came next, cold and final: “I want you to write a confession.”
Bile rose in Wendy’s throat. A full confession. Everything she did. How she seduced Russell. How the two of them conspired to kill her husband.
Wendy didn’t want to comply, but the memory of Russell’s slit throat was still fresh. So, trembling, she picked up the pen and wrote. Her words were simple and direct, an admission of the affair and the murder. But Marybeth wasn’t finished. She tapped the paper and told Wendy to add more: *I can no longer live with the guilt.*
Wendy’s hands were shaking so badly the letters barely formed. Then came another line, more chilling than the last: *So tonight, I have decided to take both our lives.*
The pen slipped from Wendy’s fingers. “Marybeth…”
“Write it!”
Marybeth raised the knife, bringing it close to Wendy’s face. Wendy closed her eyes, seeing the gaping wound on Russell’s throat again. She etched the final sentence and signed her name. There was no room for refusal.
Marybeth read the confession, satisfied. But Wendy’s mind was racing. She realized what had to happen next. The confession ends with her planning to take her own life. Which means by the end of the night, Marybeth is going to kill her—and make it look like suicide.
The thought hit Wendy like a freight train. She raced to the kitchen sink and vomited, stained red from the pinot noir she’d been drinking. Marybeth followed, standing beside her with frightening calm. Wendy begged for mercy. Marybeth only tilted her head, cold and unyielding.
“Isn’t this what you did to Doug? Don’t you think you deserve it?”
Wendy argued that jail for life should be enough. But Marybeth said no—Wendy deserved worse. She deserved to die in a painful, horrible way.
Desperate, Wendy tried logic. “You think the police will believe I stabbed myself to death? People don’t really do that. They’ll know somebody did this to me.”
Marybeth paused, thoughtful. And for one glorious second, Wendy thought she had won. But then came the twist that shattered everything.
“You’re right. They would realize it wasn’t a suicide if you were stabbed. That’s why you’re not going to die that way.”
Wendy’s dizziness intensified. What other weapon could Marybeth have? A gun? Something worse?
Marybeth smiled. “Have you ever heard of a medication called digoxin?”
Digoxin. The name hit Wendy like a punch to the gut. Douglas used to take it for his heart. And Marybeth had a copy of the keys to the Long Island house, where his medicine was kept. Then came the meaning of those slow, cruel words: “You already have, Wendy.”
The wine. The pinot noir. It was already inside her.
Wendy heaved into the sink, but nothing came up. Her stomach seized with a cramp that made her eyes water. The room blurred as she sank to the floor, clutching her belly. Marybeth crouched beside her, watching with calm, patient satisfaction.
“I’m not sure how long this will take,” Marybeth murmured. “Another hour? Two hours? There’s no rush. Nobody’s looking for us here.”
Wendy begged through gasping breaths. “Please take me to the hospital. Have mercy…”
“Like you had mercy for Doug?”
Wendy’s fingers barely grazed Marybeth’s jeans, but her body wouldn’t obey her anymore. She promised everything—anything. But Marybeth’s final words cut deeper than any knife: “And I promise that your death will be slow and painful. And unlike you, I never break my promises.”
And there, in the darkness, with poison already flowing through her veins, Wendy was left with nothing but fear, regret, and the horrible certainty that this time, there might be no way out.
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## Reader’s Impressions & Star Rating
This chapter is absolutely nerve-wracking. The tension is suffocating from start to finish. Marybeth transforms into one of the most chilling villains I’ve encountered in this story—calm, calculated, and utterly merciless. Wendy’s fear feels real, raw, and terrifying. The forced confession, the poisoned wine, the slow, agonizing countdown to her death—everything about this chapter keeps your heart pounding. I found myself whispering “no, no, no” as the digoxin reveal landed. Absolutely masterful suspense.
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Rating: 4.9 / 5 Stars
## Next Chapter Prediction
With Millie about to walk into the police station, the next chapter promises a dramatic shift. I predict Millie will surrender herself and try to convince the police of the truth—but with Wendy dying in a remote house and Marybeth ready to frame her, the evidence will be stacked against her. Meanwhile, will anyone discover Marybeth’s plan before it’s too late? If Millie’s freedom depends on exposing Marybeth, she may be running out of time—and Wendy may be running out of life.
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