“He gave that poison to Mae.”
“We do not know yet.”
“He gave it to Weston.”
“Yes.”
“He recommended continuing it.”
“Yes.”
“Move.”
“No.”
“Nola.”
“If you shoot him now, we never learn why.”
His jaw tightened.
“I know why.”
“You suspect why.”
“Crow.”
“Suspicion does not survive court.”
“I don’t care about court.”
“You have three children.”
That stopped him.
Nola lowered her voice.
“You shoot a doctor before proving anything, and Crow becomes the grieving neighbor who tried to help you while you become the unstable widower everyone warned about.”
Garrick stared.
The cruelty of the truth worked.
His hand slowly lowered.
“What do you want me to do?”
Nola looked toward Wren dismounting.
“Nothing.”
“I’m bad at that.”
“I noticed.”
“Let him believe Weston took every dose.”
Garrick’s eyes narrowed.
“Why?”
“Because if he expected the medicine to do something…”
She looked toward the stairs.
“…I want to see his face when he discovers it didn’t.”
A knock came.
Nola removed the bottle from her apron and placed it visibly on the bedside table upstairs.
Most of its contents had already been poured into another sealed jar.
Only enough remained to make the bottle look used.
Garrick watched.
“You planned this.”
“I started after sunrise.”
“How?”
“You were laughing at your son.”
“You missed things.”
The knock came again.
Garrick whispered:
“You’re frightening.”
“Open the door.”
Dr. Silas Wren looked respectable.
That bothered Nola immediately.
She had expected something easier.
Greasy hair.
Shifting eyes.
A villain’s face.
Instead he was clean-shaven, perhaps fifty, with silver at his temples and a black coat brushed free of dust. His speech was measured. His boots polished. His hands looked more like a banker’s than a frontier doctor’s.
He smiled at Garrick.
“Morning.”
Garrick gave him nothing.
Wren looked toward Nola.
“And who might this be?”
“Nola Vance.”
“From the agency?”
“Yes.”
Wren smiled.
“Good.”
“Garrick needed help.”
Nola returned the smile.
“So I’ve gathered.”
Something in his eyes cooled.
He looked toward the stairs.
“The boy?”
“Still sick,” Garrick said.
The doctor started upward.
Nola followed.
Garrick followed her.
Wren noticed.
“You both coming?”
Nola said:
“I’ve been nursing him.”
Wren looked mildly amused.
“I’ll manage.”
Nola smiled.
“I’m sure.”
Inside the bedroom, Weston lay awake.
Nola had instructed him to remain under the blanket.
The boy was a terrible actor.
Fortunately Wren barely looked at his face before reaching for the medicine bottle.
That interested Nola.
He picked it up.
Tilted it.
His expression changed.
Only slightly.
“How much has he taken?”
Garrick said:
“Every dose.”
Wren glanced at Weston again.