For Sentimental Reasons, by Bobby Warner

There it is, still setting where he last used it, on his desk. No one's been in to clean up yet, not since he died. The police were here, going over everything, wearing white gloves, dusting all the furniture, even the cup. Of course they tested the cup, or whatever it is they do with items at a death scene. They didn't call it a murder investigation, because there was nothing to make them believe it was murder. Tom, they concluded, just had a heart attack and slumped forward across his desk. Dead of natural causes.

I should get the insurance money in a week or so, the insurance man said. I'll be happy. Then Randal and I can go away, like we planned a long time ago. South America, I think, although we haven't made the final decision. With ten million dollars we can go just about anyplace we chose.

They said I could go ahead and clean the room now. Or have it cleaned, which I am going to do. I'll have the whole house cleaned, then we'll lock it up till we get back from our trip. The only thing I want is the cup. To carry with me. The poison Randal found was a really good one. We put a few drops around the rim of the cup before I carried it up to Tom that morning. After a few minutes, it evaporated and was undetectable. Undetectable in his system, too.

​Yes, I'm going to take this cup with me wherever I go. For sentimental reasons.