Chapter 4 - Returning to the Scene of the Crime
The hospital room was quiet at 3:00 a.m. Ava’s breathing was soft and rhythmic, her small fingers still curled tightly around the edge of my sleeve. I gently pried her hand away, replacing it with a soft plush bear the nurse had brought.
I leaned down and kissed her forehead, then did the same for Lucas. Their skin felt warmer now, the hydration lines doing their work.
"I’ll be back," I whispered to the empty room.
I drove back to the house in the dead of night. The streets of our quiet suburban neighborhood were empty, the neat lawns bathed in the yellow glow of the streetlights. When I turned onto our road, I noticed there were no police cars. I pulled my SUV into the driveway, my headlights washing over the front door.
The house was dark.
I unlocked the front door with my spare key, the lock turning with a heavy, metallic click that echoed through the silent neighborhood. I stepped inside, immediately met by the damp, sour smell of the laundry room.
I didn't turn on the lights. I used the flashlight on my phone, the narrow beam of light cutting through the shadows of the hallway. I walked past the kitchen, my eyes catching the dried white stains on the hardwood floor where the spilled milk had dried.
I went straight to Emily's old study.
When Emily died, Patricia had insisted on packing up her things. She told me it would "help me heal" if I didn't have to look at Emily’s old journals, her sketches, and her medical files. At the time, I had been so broken I had simply nodded and let her do it. I assumed she had thrown them away or taken them to a donation center.
But as I stood in the dark study, looking at the built-in bookshelves that Patricia had decorated with her own neutral-colored vases and motivational books, I realized something. Patricia was a hoarder of control. She wouldn't have thrown Emily’s things away. She would have kept them to gloat.
I began pulling books off the shelves, tossing them onto the carpet. I checked behind the false backs of the cabinets, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps.
Nothing.
I went up to the attic. The air up there was dusty and thick with heat. I shone my flashlight over the stacks of cardboard boxes. Most of them were labeled with Patricia's neat, looping handwriting: Winter Clothes, Thanksgiving Decors, Guest Linens.
Then, in the far corner, behind a stack of old tires, I saw a small, vintage leather suitcase. It was Emily’s. The one her grandmother had given her when she went to college.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I dragged the heavy case into the center of the attic floor. The lock was simple, and with a hard yank, the brass latch snapped open.
Inside were Emily’s journals.
I opened the top notebook, my fingers trembling as I saw my late wife's beautiful, slanted handwriting. I flipped past the entries about our wedding, past the joy of Ava’s birth, searching for the final months of her life.
November 14. I don't know what is wrong with me. The doctor says it’s just stress from having a newborn and a toddler, but my legs feel like lead. Patricia came over today and made me her special herbal tea. She’s such a lifesaver. I don't know what I would do without her. David is in Chicago for the week.
December 3. The shaking is getting worse. I dropped Lucas’s bottle today. It just slipped out of my hands. I felt so stupid. Patricia was there to clean it up. She told me I need to rest more and let her handle the cooking. Sometimes, after I drink the tea she makes, my heart starts racing so fast I feel like I'm going to pass out. I told her I think the tea might be making it worse, but she got so upset. She said she spent hours sourcing the herbs to help my circulation. I feel so guilty for doubting her.
January 18. My hair is falling out in clumps. I found a bald spot behind my left ear today. The neurologist ran more blood work but everything came back normal. I feel like I'm losing my mind. Patricia says it’s all in my head. She told me David is getting tired of coming home to a sick wife. Is that true? He looks at me with so much pity now. I hate this. I hate being a burden.
Tears blurred my vision, dripping onto the yellowed paper of the journal. I could feel Emily's terror, her isolation, her slow realization that her body was failing her—all while the woman she called her best friend was slowly, systematically feeding her poison.
I flipped to the very last page of the journal. The writing was barely legible, the letters shaky and disjointed.
February 28. I found a bottle in Patricia's purse. It had no label. Just a skull symbol on the bottom of the glass. When I asked her what it was, she got so angry. She said it was an old remedy for her own stomach issues. But I saw her put three drops of it into my cup this morning. I didn't drink it. I poured it into the orchid pot in the kitchen. I'm scared. I think she's—
May you like
The entry ended there.
Emily had died three days later.
