Chapter 6

The notary arrived at 6:15, exactly when Priss had said.

Her name was Mrs. Lattimer. She was a small woman in a puffy blue coat and sensible boots. She carried a leather briefcase and a portable stamp kit. She looked surprised to find the farmhouse kitchen crowded with four adults, a drowsy old woman, and a ten-year-old girl peeking from the stairs.

The power flickered. The woodstove had gone low. Alma sat at the table with her blue spoon in her fist. Priss stood beside her with the forged POA. Dean stood by the window, watching the yard. I stood near the door with my phone in my hand.

“I’m here for the signing,” Mrs. Lattimer said.

“There’s not going to be a signing,” I said.

Priss’s head snapped around. “Ignore her.”

“I’m the caregiver,” I said. “Alma has been sedated. She doesn’t know what she’s signing.”

Mrs. Lattimer looked at Alma. Alma’s eyes were open but unfocused. Her mouth hung slightly slack. The spoon tapped once against the table.

“Is Mrs. Mercer able to consent?” Mrs. Lattimer asked.

“She signed already,” Priss said. “We just need the notarization.”

“That’s not how this works,” Mrs. Lattimer said carefully. “I need to speak with her. I need to be satisfied she understands.”

“She’s having a bad day,” Dean said.

“A bad day,” I repeated. “She’s been drugged. Priss attacked me with a veterinary syringe in the milk house. I have it on audio.”

Priss laughed. It was a sharp, brittle sound. “She’s hysterical.”

I played the 15-second clip.

Priss’s voice filled the kitchen: “You think Dean will save you? He knows what’s best for this farm. By six fifteen, Mama signs, and you’re out.”

Mrs. Lattimer went very still. Alma’s spoon clinked. Once. Twice. Three times.

“Who is speaking?” Mrs. Lattimer asked.

“That’s Priss,” I said. “That’s her threatening me while she held a syringe to my shoulder.”

Priss stepped forward. “That recording is illegal. She’s been spying on us.”

“I don’t care if it’s illegal,” Mrs. Lattimer said. “I’m not notarizing anything today. Mrs. Mercer is clearly not able to consent, and there’s an allegation of assault.”

“You can’t just leave,” Priss said.

“I can, and I am.”

Mrs. Lattimer began packing her briefcase. Priss moved to block her. Dean caught Priss by the arm.

“Let her go,” he said.

Priss turned on him. “You said you had this handled.”

“I said stop talking.”

“You said she wouldn’t be a problem.”

“Priss.”

The room went silent. Alma’s spoon tapped three times. Dean’s hand was still on Priss’s arm, but his eyes were on me. Not angry. Not pleading. Calculating.

“You should have let me handle it,” he said quietly.

Mrs. Lattimer looked between us. “Handle what?”

No one answered.

Priss jerked free. “This isn’t over.”

“It is for tonight,” Mrs. Lattimer said. She walked out into the sleet. The door banged shut.

For a moment, nobody moved. Then Priss lunged for my phone.

I was faster. I jerked it back, but she caught my wrist. Her nails dug in. Dean grabbed her around the waist and pulled her off me.

“The phone,” he said. “Give me the phone, Nessa.”

“No.”

“You’re making this worse.”

“You made this worse when you put a syringe in the fridge.”

His face changed. For the first time all night, he looked afraid. Not of Priss. Not of the sheriff. Of me.

He let go of Priss and reached for the phone. I twisted away. He caught my hand, pried my fingers back, and took it.

“Dean-”

He was already moving. Out the kitchen door, across the muddy yard, toward the milk house. Priss screamed after him. I ran after him into the freezing dark.