Chapter 2 - The Blue Glass
Detective Ortiz arrived thirty minutes later.
She questioned Emma gently, with a child specialist present.
Emma remembered very little.
She remembered Rachel making lemonade.
She remembered a blue glass beside the sink.
She remembered Rachel saying:
“That's Daddy's. Don't touch.”
She remembered reaching for her unicorn cup.
Then cake.
Then nothing.
But one detail mattered.
Mark had not been standing beside Rachel when the lemonade was prepared.
He had been outside bringing folding chairs in from the patio.
Three guests confirmed it.
Rachel had lied.
I wanted to call her immediately.
Detective Ortiz stopped me.
“Don't.”
“She lied about my husband being in the kitchen.”
“Yes.”
“So question her.”
“We will.”
“Now.”
Ortiz looked at me.
“You need to understand something.”
“What?”
“Mark lying doesn't make Rachel truthful.”
“I know.”
“And Rachel lying doesn't make Mark innocent.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I looked through the hospital-room glass at my husband sitting beside Emma.
“I don't know what I know anymore.”
That was the truth.
Police seized the remaining birthday drinks.
Most had been dumped during the chaos.
But two glasses survived.
A wineglass near the sink.
And a dark-blue tumbler found behind the coffee machine.
Mark recognized it.
“That was mine.”
The tumbler contained bourbon residue.
No sedative.
Rachel had prepared it.
According to Mark, she often made drinks during family gatherings.
“Why would Emma remember Rachel warning her about it?”
Mark rubbed his face.
“I don't know.”
I stared.
“Try harder.”
“I don't know.”
“Did Rachel ever threaten you?”
“No.”
“Loan you money?”
His eyes shifted.
“How much?”
“About sixty thousand.”
My chest tightened.
She had told police thirty.
“You said thirty thousand.”
“I borrowed more later.”
“Why?”
“Gambling.”
The word sounded uglier when he said it.
“How long?”
“Two years.”
“How much did you lose?”
“I don't know exactly.”
“Three hundred thousand disappeared.”
“Not all gambling.”
“Then where is the rest?”
He looked toward Emma.
“Not here.”
I almost laughed.
“You're worried about where we discuss your crimes now?”
His face hardened.
“I didn't poison her.”
“You sold surgical drugs.”
He looked at me sharply.
“Who told you?”
“Malcolm.”
Color left his face.
“You met him?”
“Yes.”
“Are you insane?”
“Interesting question from the man who owes him almost two hundred thousand dollars.”
Mark stood.
“He is dangerous.”
“So are you apparently.”
“Listen to me.”
“No.”
“He has threatened me for months.”
“And you kept meeting him?”
“I owed him money.”
“You sold him drugs.”
Mark said nothing.
That silence was confession.
I felt something break inside me.
“How many?”
“Not many.”
“You stole medication from your job.”
He looked down.
“How many?”
“I don't know.”
“Stop saying that.”
“Enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“To pay interest.”
I wanted to scream.
Instead I asked:
“Did Rachel know?”
He didn't answer.
My hands went cold.
“Mark.”
“Yes.”
That was the second betrayal.
My husband and my sister had been sharing secrets behind my back.
“How?”
“She found out about the gambling.”
“When?”
“Eight months ago.”
“She loaned you money?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She said she was helping.”
“And the payments Malcolm mentioned?”
Mark looked at me.
“What payments?”
“He says you were sending Rachel money before she ever loaned you anything.”
Mark's face changed.
Barely.
I saw it.
“Why?”
“No reason.”
“That isn't an answer.”
He sat down.
“Consulting.”
I stared.
“Rachel is an elementary-school art teacher.”
He closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
“What consulting?”
No answer.
Then Detective Ortiz returned.
She had received preliminary information from the laboratory.
The vial found beneath Mark's seat carried a batch number.
It came from Harbor Point Surgical Center.
Mark's workplace.
But something else had been found on the vial.
Not fingerprints.
A trace of dark-red lipstick along the rubberized cap.
Rachel had been wearing dark-red lipstick at Emma's birthday party.
So had three other women.
It wasn't proof.
But it changed the direction of the investigation.
Detective Ortiz left us alone again.
I stared at Mark.
“You know something about Rachel.”
He shook his head.
“You do.”
“No.”
“Why are you protecting her?”
His eyes became wet.
For one second, I thought he would finally tell me.
Then his phone vibrated.
A text appeared on the lock screen.
No name.
Only a number.
But I saw the message.
If she finds out about us, Emma won't be the only person you lose.
Mark grabbed the phone.
Too late.
I had already read it.
“About us?”
He said nothing.
I reached for the phone.
He pulled away.
“Mark.”
Nothing.
“Give me the phone.”
“No.”
“Who sent that?”
May you like
He wouldn't look at me.
And for the first time since Emma collapsed, I became afraid that the secret connecting my husband and my sister was more personal than money.
