Chapter 4 - Six Months of Fog
While Greg remained at the hospital to await the toxicology results, Mark insisted we return home to "shower and change before the detectives call."
The drive back to our two-story colonial in the wealthy enclave of Oak Ridge was dead silent. The headlights carved through the midnight fog rolling off the coast. Mark drove with both hands clamped to the steering wheel at ten and two, his knuckles bloodless.
"How long?" I broke the silence. My voice was calm, conversational, as if asking about the weather.
He didn't answer. He kept his eyes glued to the black asphalt.
"How long have you been putting it in my food, Mark?"
"Shut up, Diane," he hissed, the speedometer creeping from fifty to sixty-five on the winding back road.
"The dizziness started in October," I continued, tracing a finger along the dashboard leather. "Right after we finalized the renewal of our joint trust. Then came the memory lapses. The time I thought I left the stove on and burned the kettle? You told me I was losing my mind. The time I fell down the basement stairs because my legs suddenly stopped responding? You cried at the ER, Mark. You were so gentle. You tucked me into bed and brought me hot tea."
My voice dropped into a dark, razor-sharp whisper. "Was it in the tea, Mark? Or was it in the vitamins you brought me every single morning with breakfast?"
"I said shut up!" he roared, slamming his palm against the steering wheel. The car swerved, tires clipping the gravel shoulder before he jerked it back into the lane. "You don't know what you're talking about! You’re paranoid! You’ve always been paranoid!"
"I switched the bowls," I said quietly. "If I was imagining it, Judith would be fine right now. She’d be sleeping in her bed. But she’s in an ICU on a ventilator because she ate the soup you seasoned for me."
"It was an accident!" he yelled, his voice cracking into high-pitched hysteria. "It was an accident, Diane! You think I wanted to hurt my own mother?!"
"No," I replied, turning my head to look at his sweating, frantic profile. "You wanted to hurt me. You just didn't have the stomach to watch your mother pay the bill for your crime."
He pulled the car violently into our driveway, cutting the engine so hard the key nearly snapped in the ignition. The sudden silence of the dark suburban night was deafening.
He sat there in the dark, chest heaving, refusing to unlock the doors.
"You have no proof," he whispered, staring through the windshield at our dark, perfect house. "Even if they find something in Mom’s blood, they can't trace it to me. Clara made the soup. You served the bowls. It could have come from the vegetables. It could have been contaminated packaging."
"And the packet in your pocket?" I asked.
His hand instinctively flew to his right jacket pocket.
"Did you throw it away at Judith’s house?" I leaned in, my breath warm against his ear. "Or did you flush it in the hospital bathroom? It doesn't matter, Mark. A chemical that potent leaves traces. On your clothes. In the lint of your coat. On the skin of your fingertips."
Mark scrambled for the door handle, kicking his door open, stumbling out onto the concrete driveway like a madman trying to escape a burning room. I calmly unlocked my side, stepped out, and watched him run up the front steps.
May you like
The hunter was now the prey. And he was completely coming apart at the seams.
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