‘Plotting to kill me?’
He asks in jest and I chuckle, as he expects me to. I pick up the slipping rug that almost sent him toppling down those treacherous stairs.
‘I put it there because…,’ but he dismissed my explanation with a ‘yes, dear’ and asks when lunch will be ready. I inspect the uneven floorboards, looking for the loose one. No matter where I push, they won’t stay level. Someone will trip over them.
‘Lunch, dear? I am quite hungry, you know.’
Will I get away with it if he stumbles, falls and his neck takes a twist?