The thing beneath everything.
Nola moved from the floor to the chair opposite him.
“You followed instructions.”
“I held the spoon.”
“You followed instructions.”
“Every night.”
His voice broke.
“Sometimes she begged me not to.”
Nola went still.
“She hated how it made her feel.”
“She said her stomach burned.”
“Her hands shook.”
“She tasted metal.”
“I told her medicine wasn't supposed to taste good.”
His face collapsed.
“I told her to take it.”
Nola had no easy answer.
None that would not sound like pity.
So she told the truth.
“If somebody poisoned her, they used your love to deliver it.”
Garrick closed his eyes.
A tear slipped down his face.
“That may not make you feel innocent tonight.”
“It should.”
He did not answer.
Nola looked toward Weston.
“You can punish yourself later.”
Garrick opened his eyes.
“What?”
“Tomorrow we figure out whether your boy is safe.”
“Then we figure out what is in those bottles.”
“Then we decide who deserves blame.”
She leaned back.
“In that order.”
He nodded slowly.
For once, he let someone else make the plan.
At dawn, Weston asked for porridge.
Nola nearly kissed the child.
Instead she said:
“You can have broth.”
His face crumpled.
“Porridge.”
“Broth.”
“You mean.”
“Yes.”
Garrick stood in the doorway holding a cup.
He looked exhausted.
But alive.
Different.
Clara sat beside Weston, describing porridge in unnecessary detail just to torment him.
Eli fed kindling into the stove.
For one morning, the house almost sounded like a family instead of a mausoleum.
Then hoofbeats approached.
Garrick stiffened.
Nola looked through the window.
One rider.
Black horse.
Dark coat.
Leather medical case strapped behind the saddle.
Garrick whispered:
“Wren.”
Nola turned.
“The doctor?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes went toward the medicine box.
Garrick moved toward the rifle above the mantel.
Nola stepped directly in front of him.
“No.”
“He poisoned my son.”
“We do not know that.”
“He poisoned Mae.”
“We do not know that either.”
“I know enough.”
“You know enough to be angry.”
“That is not the same as knowing enough to shoot a man.”
Garrick’s hand remained near the rifle.
Nola lowered her voice.
“If he is involved, the worst thing you can do is show him we know.”
Garrick stared at her.
She continued:
“Let him talk.”
“Let him believe Weston took the medicine.”
“Watch his face.”
Garrick looked toward his son.
Then reluctantly removed his hand from the rifle.
“Fine.”
Nola took the current medicine bottle and poured most of it into an empty jar hidden inside a flour bin.
Then she replaced the bottle beside the bed with only a trace remaining.