Chapter 1 - THE PITCHER
The recording had already begun when I opened the bedroom door.
I had raised my phone before entering because Mom’s last voicemail contained only broken breathing, the scrape of furniture, and Gwendolyn whispering, “You will drink it.”
I still was not prepared.
My wife stood over Florence’s bed with a clear pitcher tilted between both hands. Gray water spilled across my mother’s mouth, nightgown, and blankets while she struggled weakly beneath them.
“Does the mop water taste good?” Gwendolyn shrieked.
Mom raised both arms to protect her face.
Bruises marked the pale skin beneath her sleeves.
“Please,” she gasped. “I’m cold.”
The room smelled of dirty water, medicine, and damp fabric.
I crossed the floor.
Gwendolyn turned too late.
My palm struck her cheek. The pitcher slipped from her hand, hit the hardwood, and shattered. Water spread beneath her flats.
I moved between them.
Gwendolyn stared at me with one hand pressed to her face.
“You hit me.”
“You were pouring mop water into my mother’s mouth.”
“She attacked me first.”
Florence was shivering so violently that the bedframe clicked against the wall.
I pulled the soaked blankets away, found a dry quilt in the closet, and wrapped it around her shoulders.
Her hand clutched my wrist.
“Lucas.”
“I’m here.”
Her lips were blue at the edges.
I called emergency services and placed the phone on speaker without stopping the recording.
Gwendolyn backed toward the cabinet.
“Save your explanation for the police.”
“You don’t understand what she’s done.”
She reached behind a stack of towels.
I saw the leather handle first.
Gwendolyn tried to drag the hidden bag from the cabinet.
I caught it before she could.
“Give that back.”
I pulled the zipper open.
Several blank medicine bottles rolled across the carpet. Folded property documents slid out beneath them.
One bore Mom’s signature.
Another carried the embossed seal from the county recorder.
The deed to Maple Hollow.
The farm where I had grown up.
The land my father had told me could never be sold without Mom’s consent.
I looked at Gwendolyn.
“Why is my mother’s deed in your bag?”
Her face lost all color.
“She gave it to me.”
Mom made a sound beneath the blanket.
Not agreement.
Fear.
Sirens rose beyond the windows.
Gwendolyn stepped toward the scattered bottles.
I blocked her.
She looked past me at Florence.
“She hasn’t told you the truth about that property.”
Mom’s grip tightened around my wrist.
Her eyes fixed on one of the blank bottles.
May you like
Then she whispered the only words she managed before the paramedics entered.
“The blue pills weren’t mine.”
