Chapter 4

I took the lockbox into the pantry and locked the door.

It was a narrow closet with shelves of canned tomatoes, flour, and the old rotary phone that still worked when the power flickered. I set the box on a step stool and opened it. Alma’s pill organizer sat on top. Monday through Sunday, morning and night. I knew what should be there. I had filled it myself.

Two days were empty when they shouldn’t be. Tuesday night. Wednesday morning. Thursday night. Friday morning. The blister packs underneath had been punched through in a pattern that didn’t match Alma’s doses. Too many missing. Too many for a woman who forgot whether she had eaten toast.

I counted twice. Twelve days of missing doses. Some were her dementia meds. Some were her blood pressure pills. And two of the missing slots were for the sedative the hospice doctor had prescribed only for extreme agitation, and only half a pill at a time.

Priss had been feeding her the extra. Not every day. Just enough to keep her docile. Just enough to make her seem incompetent.

My hands were shaking.

Someone knocked on the pantry door. Not Dean’s knock. Priss.

“Nessa,” she said. “Open up.”

“Go away.”

“We need to talk about Emmie.”

My blood went cold. I opened the door a crack. Priss stood in the kitchen light with her arms crossed. Behind her, Dean was at the table with Alma, trying to spoon soup into her mouth. Alma’s head lolled. She was barely awake.

“What about Emmie?” I said.

“You’re unstable,” Priss said. “You attacked me in the milk house. You stole medication. You’ve been recording us in our own home.”

“You attacked me.”

“Who do you think the sheriff will believe? The farm manager with the POA? Or the hired aide who married into the family and started hearing voices?”

I wanted to hit her. I wanted to scream. Instead I held the door.

“If you call CPS,” I said, “they’ll see Alma’s bruises. They’ll see the missing pills.”

Priss smiled. It was a thin, patient smile. “Alma falls. She’s old. She bruises. You’re her caregiver. Who do you think they’ll blame?”

My stomach dropped.

“Dean won’t let you do that,” I said.

“Dean already let me do a lot of things.”

She shifted her weight. The dark coveralls were unzipped at the top, and in the pocket over her chest I saw a flash of orange. The syringe cap. The syringe itself was tucked down deep, but the cap was right there, bright as a warning light.

“You put that in your pocket,” I said. “In the milk house.”

“You don’t know what you saw.”

“I know what you held to my shoulder.”

Priss leaned closer. Her breath smelled like coffee and mint. “By morning,” she said, “you’ll be the one under investigation. Not me. Not Dean. You.”

She walked away.

I stayed in the pantry until my breathing slowed. Then I took out my phone and photographed the pill organizer, the missing blister packs, and the lockbox. I photographed the pantry door. I photographed the timestamp. I did not play the recording yet. I was too afraid of what I might hear.

But I typed another message to Yolanda: Missing doses for 12 days. Priss threatened CPS. Syringe cap in her pocket.

Yolanda replied: Sheriff delayed by fallen trees. Notary still coming. Do not let Alma sign. I’m on my way.

From the kitchen, Alma’s spoon tapped the table. Three times.

Then three times again.

I pressed my ear to the pantry door. Dean was whispering to Priss. I could not make out the words. But I could hear Emmie on the stairs, crying quietly.

That was the moment I stopped thinking about saving my marriage. I started thinking about how to get my daughter out of that house.