Garrick watched.
“Where did you learn to lie like that?”
Nola corked the bottle.
“Church.”
He almost laughed.
There was no time.
A knock came downstairs.
Dr. Silas Wren entered Hollow Creek Ranch five minutes later.
He was not what Nola expected.
Not sinister.
Not dirty.
Not obviously dishonest.
He was perhaps fifty, neatly dressed in a black frock coat, with silver hair, clean fingernails, and the calm confidence of a man accustomed to being believed.
That frightened Nola more.
He smiled at Garrick.
“Morning.”
Garrick gave him nothing.
Wren looked toward Nola.
“And you are?”
“Nola Vance.”
“New housekeeper?”
“Yes.”
His gaze stayed on her a fraction longer than necessary.
Then he looked upstairs.
“The boy?”
“Improved.”
Wren’s expression flickered.
Tiny.
Nola saw.
“Improved?”
Garrick nodded.
“Fever dropped overnight.”
The doctor started toward the stairs.
Nola followed.
Inside Weston’s room, Wren opened his case.
He listened to the child’s chest.
Checked his throat.
Pulse.
Then reached for the medicine bottle.
Nola watched his fingers.
He lifted it.
Noticed the low level.
Looked at Garrick.
“You’ve been giving the prescribed dose?”
Garrick’s voice remained controlled.
“Yes.”
“How often?”
“Four hours.”
Wren looked toward Weston.
The boy was awake.
Too awake for whatever outcome the doctor had expected.
Maybe Nola imagined it.
Maybe not.
Wren uncorked the bottle.
Smelled it.
Then:
“I’ll prepare another.”
Nola said:
“No need.”
His head turned.
She smiled.
“I found enough downstairs.”
The first real crack appeared in his face.
“What?”
“Another bottle.”
“From Mae’s box.”
Silence.
Garrick looked at Nola sharply.
That had not been the plan.
She continued:
“Same label.”
“Same smell.”
“I thought we could use that.”
Wren’s face recovered.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Old medicine degrades.”
Nola tilted her head.
“Interesting.”
“Yes.”
“Because the sediment looked identical.”
Wren went still.
Only for a heartbeat.
Enough.
Nola smiled.
“I worked in an apothecary once.”
Now he knew.
The room became colder.
Wren corked the bottle.
“Household medicines frequently precipitate.”
“Of course.”
“Mineral tonics especially.”
“What mineral?”
His eyes sharpened.
“What?”
“What mineral is in this tonic?”
Garrick watched.
Wren answered:
“Iron.”
Nola held his gaze.
“Iron doesn't smell like that.”
“Impure preparations do.”
“What else is in it?”
“A proprietary compound.”
“Made by whom?”
“My supplier.”
“Name?”
Wren closed his case.
“I do not have to explain medical formulations to domestic help.”
There it was.
Contempt.
Useful.
Nola stepped aside.
“No.”
“You don’t.”
Wren looked toward Garrick.
“I recommend continuing the medicine.”
Garrick’s hands curled into fists.
Nola saw.
She spoke before he could.
“Of course.”
Wren looked toward her.
She smiled politely.