Chương 8
“Stay at the school.”
For several seconds, no one spoke.
Then Daniel said, “Fine.”
It was the smallest I had ever heard his voice.
A knock came at the hospital door.
Dr. Shah entered with Jenna and a man in a gray suit carrying an identification wallet.
The man introduced himself as Detective Marcus Bell from the county sheriff’s office.
He did not sit.
He looked at my phone, then at me.
“Mrs. Whitaker, the school resource officer called us about a possible contaminated drink.”
I stared at him.
“That was fast.”
“Usually it isn’t.”
His expression remained serious.
“But there’s a child involved.”
He glanced toward Dr. Marquez.
“And the hospital just notified poison control.”
My mouth went dry.
“Do you know what’s in my blood?”
“Not yet,” Dr. Shah said.
Detective Bell slipped a small notebook from his pocket.
“Then I need to ask you a question before we do anything else.”
He looked directly at me.
“Who, besides you, has had regular access to your food, drinks, medications, and home during the months you’ve been getting sick?”
“Daniel.”
Detective Bell’s pen stopped above the page.
“And Patricia.”
He waited.
“Anyone else?”
“My sister has a key, but she lives in Denver.”
“Housekeeper?”
“No.”
“Babysitter?”
“Not regularly.”
“Neighbors?”
“No.”
He wrote something down.
“Did Mr. Whitaker still have a key after he moved out?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“I changed the locks in February.”
“Why?”
I looked at the blanket over my legs.
“Because he kept coming in.”
Bell’s pen stopped again.
“Without permission?”
“He said it was still his house.”
“Was it?”
“His name was still on the deed.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I looked up.
“No.”
The answer felt strangely large.
Bell nodded once and continued.
“Did Patricia have a key?”
“Yes.”
“After February?”
“No.”
“Did she know the locks had changed?”
“I think so.”
“Did she ever ask for a new key?”
“No.”
“Did she still come inside?”
“Only when I was home.”
He turned a page.
“How often did she bring food?”
“Twice a week, sometimes more.”
“Did you ask her to?”
“At first.”
“And later?”
“No.”
“What did she say when you told her to stop?”
I almost corrected him.
I had never told her to stop.
That was the problem.
“I didn’t.”
Bell glanced up.
“Why not?”
I rubbed my thumb against the edge of the blanket.
“Because saying no to Patricia turns into a meeting.”
“A meeting?”
“She wants reasons.”
Dr. Shah shifted beside the wall.
Bell said nothing.
I kept going.
“If you say you don’t want casserole, she wants to know what you’re cooking instead.”
“If you say Lily can’t stay over, she wants to know what plans you have.”
“If you say you’re tired, she wants to know whether you slept enough.”
“If you say you’re fine, she tells you that you don’t look fine.”
I gave a weak shrug.
“It was easier to take the food.”
Bell wrote that down too.
I hated seeing ordinary cowardice turned into evidence.
“When did your symptoms begin relative to the food deliveries?”
“Months after they started.”
“Did the recipes change?”
“I don’t know.”
“Containers?”
“Mostly disposable pans.”
“Anything prepared separately for you?”
I opened my mouth, then stopped.
Bell noticed.
“What?”
“She used to make tea.”
“What kind?”
“Herbal.”
“Do you still have any?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“I threw out a box in July.”
“Why?”
“It tasted bitter.”
“Brand?”
“It wasn’t from a box.”
Bell leaned forward slightly.
“She made it herself?”
“Yes.”
“Leaves?”
“Tea bags?”
“Powder?”
“I don’t know.”
“It came in little paper sachets.”
“Did she label them?”
“No.”
“How often did you drink it?”
“Maybe three times a week.”
Dr. Marquez glanced at Dr. Shah.
Bell caught it.
“What?”
Dr. Marquez answered.
“Nothing conclusive.”
Bell’s mouth tightened.
“I’m not asking for conclusive.”
“Repeated ingestion matters more than a single exposure for some toxins.”
“Could tea carry something?”
“Yes.”
“Could casserole?”
“Yes.”
“Juice?”
“Yes.”
I gripped the blanket harder.
Bell noticed that too.
“Mrs. Whitaker, I need you to stay with what you know.”
“I’m trying.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean I’m actually trying.”
My voice sharpened.
“Everybody keeps asking me things I never paid attention to because normal people don’t inventory who touches their lasagna.”
The room went quiet.
Bell closed the notebook halfway.
“That’s fair.”
I looked away.
My face felt hot.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“I’m being difficult.”
“You’re in the emergency department after collapsing in court while someone may have been putting something in your food.”
His tone remained flat.
“You’re allowed to be difficult.”
That almost made me cry again.
I was getting tired of almost crying.
The door opened and Jenna entered carrying a bag of clear fluid.
She replaced the nearly empty IV bag and checked the monitor.
“Your pressure’s improving.”
“Can I go to the school?”
“No.”
“That was very fast.”
“I’ve been practicing.”
She adjusted the tubing.
Detective Bell waited until she finished.
Then his phone vibrated.
He checked the screen and stepped into the hall.
Through the glass, I watched him speak with one finger pressed into his opposite ear.
Dr. Shah sat on the stool.
“We’re giving you potassium.”
“I heard.”
“Your ECG showed some changes that can happen when potassium drops.”
“Is that why I collapsed?”
“Maybe.”
“That’s comforting.”
“I’m not aiming for comforting.”
“I noticed.”
A corner of his mouth moved.
Dr. Marquez studied my chart.
“Have your symptoms ever improved when Patricia was away?”
The question hit somewhere old.
“Last Christmas.”
“How long?”
“She went to Arizona for three weeks.”
“How were you?”
I stared at the wall.
“Better.”
“Significantly?”
“I stopped getting headaches.”
“Did you notice that then?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I thought my marriage was getting better.”
The words came out before I could stop them.
Dr. Marquez lowered the chart.
“Daniel was home more?”
“He had taken time off.”
“Did he cook?”
“No.”
“We ordered food.”
The pattern sat there.
Not proof.
May you like
Still not proof.
But enough to make the room feel smaller.
