Chapter 1 - The Man in the Hotel Room
“Mark.”
For several seconds, I thought I had misunderstood Malcolm.
The cheap hotel air conditioner rattled beneath the window.
Outside, Baltimore traffic moved through the wet evening as if nothing in my life had changed.
I stared at the stranger across from me.
“You bought the sedative to kill my husband?”
Malcolm leaned back.
“I said that was the reason I wanted it.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“It is the answer you're getting until I know whether you're recording me.”
I was.
My phone was inside my coat pocket.
I had started recording before entering the room.
I didn't know whether it would be legally useful.
I knew only that I had stopped trusting anyone.
“Why would Mark sell you something you planned to use against him?”
Malcolm smiled without humor.
“He didn't know.”
“Then he sold it to you for what?”
“Money.”
“How much does he owe you?”
His expression changed.
That was the first time I saw genuine anger.
“A lot.”
“How much?”
“More than he could pay.”
“Give me a number.”
“Hundred and eighty-seven thousand.”
I felt sick.
That was only part of the money missing from our accounts.
“What was the debt?”
“Sports.”
“Gambling?”
“Mostly.”
I closed my eyes.
Mark had told me the missing money was tied to “temporary investments.”
Another lie.
Malcolm continued.
“Then he started borrowing to cover borrowing.”
“From you?”
“From anybody.”
“Rachel?”
He looked at me more carefully.
“You know about Rachel?”
“She told police she loaned Mark money.”
Malcolm laughed softly.
“Loaned.”
The way he said it made my skin prickle.
“What does that mean?”
“Ask your sister why she was getting payments from your husband before she ever supposedly loaned him anything.”
My throat tightened.
“What payments?”
“Regular ones.”
“For what?”
“I don't know.”
“You know enough to call me.”
“I called because a seven-year-old ended up in a hospital.”
Something almost human moved across his face.
“That wasn't supposed to happen.”
I went still.
“What wasn't supposed to happen?”
Malcolm looked toward the door.
“I should never have contacted you.”
“You already did.”
He stood.
I didn't.
“Sit down.”
He almost smiled.
“You sound like a cop.”
“I sound like a mother whose child was poisoned.”
That word stopped him.
Poisoned.
Nobody in the family had wanted to use it.
Sedated.
Exposed.
Accidentally ingested.
The doctors used cautious language.
I didn't care.
A surgical drug had been placed in my daughter's drink.
That was poisoning.
“Was Emma the target?”
Malcolm said nothing.
“Was Mark?”
Silence.
“Rachel?”
He picked up his jacket.
I stood.
“You told me you wanted Mark dead.”
“I did.”
“Do you still?”
His eyes met mine.
“No.”
I didn't believe him.
“Why not?”
“Because whoever put that drug in Emma's cup just did something worse to Mark than I ever could.”
My blood went cold.
“What?”
“They made sure the police looked at him.”
The vial beneath Mark's driver seat.
Rachel's statement.
Mark's access to the drug.
His gambling.
His debts.
Every piece pointed in the same direction.
Too neatly.
“You think someone framed him.”
“I think Mark is a liar.”
Malcolm moved toward the door.
“I think he's a thief.”
Another step.
“I think he sold things from that surgical center that never should have left the building.”
He opened the door.
“But I don't think he drugged his daughter.”
“Then who did?”
He stopped.
“Ask yourself who knew police would search his car.”
Then he left.
I stood alone.
Ten minutes later, I was in my car calling Detective Lena Ortiz.
She had been assigned to Emma's case the morning after the birthday party.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“Baltimore.”
“What are you doing in Baltimore?”
“I met Malcolm.”
Silence.
Then:
“Malcolm who?”
I realized I had made another mistake.
I had followed an anonymous address without telling police.
“I don't know his last name.”
Detective Ortiz used a word I won't repeat.
Then:
“Stay where you are.”
“He left.”
“Do not follow him.”
“I wasn't planning to.”
“Send me the recording.”
I did.
Then I called the hospital.
Emma was awake.
Mark was with her.
That surprised me.
Police had questioned him for nearly nine hours, but he had not yet been charged.
I drove back.
When I entered Emma's room, she was watching cartoons with the volume low.
Her face looked too small against the pillow.
“Mommy.”
I crossed the room and kissed her.
“You okay?”
She nodded.
Then immediately whispered:
“Is Aunt Rachel mad at me?”
My body went still.
“Why would Rachel be mad?”
Emma looked toward Mark.
Mark's face changed.
“Emma,” I said gently, “what happened before you drank your lemonade?”
She picked at the blanket.
“Aunt Rachel said not to tell.”
Mark stood.
“Not to tell what?”
Emma flinched.
I turned.
“Sit down, Mark.”
He sat.
I took Emma's hand.
“You aren't in trouble.”
“She said it was a grown-up surprise.”
“What surprise?”
Emma frowned, trying to remember.
“She put something in the kitchen.”
My heart started pounding.
“In your cup?”
“I don't know.”
“What did it look like?”
Emma shook her head.
“Did Rachel give you the unicorn cup?”
“Yes.”
“Did Daddy touch it?”
Emma looked at Mark.
Then shook her head.
“No.”
Mark inhaled sharply.
Rachel had told police Mark stood beside her while she prepared the drink.
My seven-year-old daughter had just contradicted her.
Then Emma added something else.
“Aunt Rachel said Daddy wasn't supposed to drink from the blue glass.”
Mark's face went completely white.
I turned toward him.
“What blue glass?”
He didn't answer.
“Mark.”
Emma looked frightened.
I lowered my voice.
“What blue glass?”
Finally, my husband whispered:
“My bourbon glass.”
May you like
And for the first time, another possibility entered the room.
Emma's drink might not have been the only drink prepared that night.
