Chapter 3 - The Shadow of the Past
The tension in the hallway was thick enough to choke on. My mother stared at me, her chest heaving, her eyes narrowed into dark slits. For my entire life, Margaret Vance had been a force of nature—a formidable, controlling woman who ruled our family with an iron fist disguised as matriarchal concern. But right now, standing in the bright LED lighting of my kitchen, she looked trapped.
“Get out of my way, Leo,” she said softly, a threat lacing her words.
“Give me the bag, Mom,” I replied. “If it’s just a spice grinder, prove it. Show us.”
“I don’t have to prove anything to an ungrateful son who chooses a crazy woman over his own blood!” she spat.
Ben stepped forward, placing a hand on our mother’s shoulder. “Mom, just show him. If it’s nothing, let him look at it so we can stop this madness.”
Margaret whirled on Ben, shaking his hand off violently. “You shut up! You’ve always been weak, just like your father!”
The mention of my late father, Arthur Vance, sent a cold shiver down my spine. Dad had died four years ago. The official cause had been a sudden, massive heart attack, preceded by months of strange, debilitating illness that doctors had chalked up to early-onset dementia and systemic organ failure. At the time, we had mourned him as a tragic victim of bad genetics. But as I looked at my mother now—at the wild, desperate look in her eyes—a terrifying thought took root in my mind.
What if Dad didn't die of natural causes?
Claire must have read my mind, because she looked at me with horrified realization. “Leo... your dad’s heart failure...”
“Don’t you dare!” Margaret shrieked, pointing a manicured finger at Claire. “Don’t you dare bring Arthur into this!”
“Ben,” I said, my voice deathly calm. “Call 911.”
“What?” Ben gasped, staggering back. “Leo, it’s Mom! We can’t call the police on Mom!”
“She poisoned Ethan’s food!” Claire cried out. “It was meant for me, but Ethan almost ate it! If Tyler hadn’t reached for it, or if Ethan had taken one more bite, he could be in the hospital right now—or dead!”
“I am calling them,” I said, reaching into my pocket for my phone.
Before I could dial, Margaret moved with surprising violence. She swung her heavy handbag, striking my wrist. The phone flew out of my hand, skidding across the hardwood floor toward the dining room.
Taking advantage of the chaos, Margaret bolted toward the front door. Ben stood frozen, paralyzed by disbelief. I lunged forward, catching the strap of her purse.
“Let go!” she screamed, clawing at my hands.
The strap snapped. Margaret tumbled forward onto the entryway rug, her purse spilling its contents across the floor. Out tumbled her wallet, keys, lipsticks—and two small, amber prescription bottles, along with the silver pill crusher.
Claire immediately dropped to her knees, scooping up the ziplock bag with the steak, while I reached for the medicine bottles before my mother could recover.
I read the label on the first bottle under the chandelier light.
Digitalis.
A powerful heart medication. In precise doses, it treated arrhythmia. In unprescribed, high doses, it caused severe nausea, confusion, vision disturbances, lethal cardiac arrest—and left behind a bitter, metallic, medicine-like taste.
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The name on the prescription wasn't Margaret Vance.
It was Arthur Vance. The prescription had been filled four years ago, just weeks before my father died. And the second bottle was filled with crushed white powder.
