Chapter 3 - The Boy Who Knew My NameI did not sleep.
The first was that pretending not to feel your legs was much harder once sensation had returned.
The second was that terror could make a person very calm.
The mansion appeared beyond the sycamores exactly as it had every day of my childhood—gray stone, tall windows, slate roof, twelve acres of manicured lawn.
Home.
Except now I looked at it differently.
Every window seemed to hide someone watching.
“Still want to do this?” Martin asked.
“No.”
He glanced at me through the rearview mirror.
“But?”
“I’m doing it anyway.”
Before we left the clinic, the doctor had drawn additional blood and advised me to go directly to an emergency department.
Instead, I had asked her for discretion.
She had not liked it.
Neither had Martin.
But both understood when I explained one thing.
If someone inside my home had intentionally poisoned me for three months, I could not afford to alert them before I knew why.
Martin stopped beside the front entrance.
Immediately, the door opened.
Evelyn appeared.
She wore cream trousers and a pale blue blouse, every blond hair perfectly arranged.
Her face was filled with concern.
“There you are.”
My stomach turned.
She hurried down the steps.
“Claire, where have you been?”
“Just driving around.”
“Your phone?”
“I didn’t feel like talking.”
Evelyn bent and hugged me.
I smelled her perfume.
For ninety days, that scent had meant safety.
Now every muscle in my body screamed.
“Your father has been frantic.”
“I’m sorry.”
She stood.
“And you missed your medication.”
“I’ll take it upstairs.”
“No need.”
She reached into her pocket.
A small white pill rested on her palm.
My heart stumbled.
“I brought it down.”
Martin looked at me.
Only for half a second.
But Evelyn noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I said.
I took the pill.
Then pretended to swallow.
Evelyn smiled.
“There.”
The pill remained beneath my tongue until she turned away.
I slipped it into my sleeve.
That tiny act felt more dangerous than anything I had ever done.
Dad was waiting inside the library.
“Where the hell were you?”
His anger disappeared when he saw my expression.
“You okay?”
“Just tired.”
He kissed my forehead.
“I thought getting outside would help.”
“It did.”
That part was true.
Evelyn rested her hand on his shoulder.
“She needs rest, Charles.”
Dad nodded.
“Tomorrow we’ll call Dr. Levin again.”
“No.”
Both looked at me.
I forced a defeated expression onto my face.
“I’m tired of doctors.”
Evelyn’s posture relaxed almost invisibly.
Dad sighed.
“Fine. One day.”
She wheeled me toward the elevator herself.
Halfway there, my right calf cramped.
Pain exploded through muscle that had not properly contracted in months.
I nearly gasped.
Instead, I dug my fingernails into the armrest.
Evelyn noticed.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You looked uncomfortable.”
“My back.”
“I told you that wheelchair cushion needs replacing.”
She continued pushing.
I stared at her hands.
Perfect manicure.
Diamond wedding ring.
Hands that had carried hundreds of cups of tea.
Upstairs, she helped transfer me into bed.
I deliberately let my legs hang limp.
That hurt too.
My muscles were weak, but not dead.
The realization was intoxicating.
And devastating.
Evelyn pulled the blanket over me.
“I’ll bring dinner up.”
“Thank you.”
“And your tea.”
My chest tightened.
“I’m not really in the mood.”
“You should have it. You didn’t finish much this morning.”
How did she know that?
My eyes went toward her.
She smiled.
“You left the cup nearly full.”
Of course she knew.
Maybe it meant nothing.
Maybe she had simply seen it.
But fear sharpened everything.
“Later,” I said.
“Of course.”
She kissed my head.
When the door closed, I waited thirty seconds.
Then I spit the hidden pill into a tissue.
I texted Martin.
Need you to get this tested.
His response came immediately.
I’m outside.
Twenty minutes later, my father came upstairs.
He sat at the edge of my bed.
“You’ve been strange since you got home.”
“I’m tired.”
“You already used that one.”
I tried to smile.
Dad studied me.
He had always been difficult to deceive.
“When you were six,” he said, “you broke the blue vase in the drawing room and blamed the dog.”
“I remember.”
“We didn’t own a dog.”
Despite everything, I laughed.
He leaned closer.
“What happened today?”
I almost told him.
Almost.
Then I remembered how completely he trusted Evelyn.
If I accused his wife without proof, would he believe me?
Or would he confront her immediately?
And if she were innocent?
Or worse—if she were guilty?
“I saw a kid begging,” I said.
Dad frowned.
“He looked hungry.”
“That’s what upset you?”
“Yes.”
It was not a total lie.
The boy’s hollow cheeks haunted me.
Dad kissed my forehead.
“You always had too much heart.”
After he left, Evelyn returned carrying a silver tray.
Tea.
Steam curled from the porcelain cup.
Chamomile and honey.
The smell that had defined ninety mornings of helplessness.
She placed it beside me.
“Drink while it’s hot.”
“I will.”
She stayed.
For perhaps thirty seconds.
Watching.
I reached for the cup.
My hand shook.
“Careful.”
I raised it toward my lips.
Then deliberately sneezed.
Tea spilled onto the blanket.
“Oh!”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
Evelyn grabbed towels from the bathroom.
While her back was turned, I poured half the remaining tea into the water bottle hidden beside the bed.
Then I drank a tiny amount and pretended to finish.
Evelyn seemed satisfied.
Later, after she left, I locked my bedroom door.
That had never been necessary before.
At eleven thirty, Martin texted.
Got the pill to the clinic contact. Tea sample tomorrow.
I replied:
Thank you.
Then another message arrived.
Unknown number.
I stared at it.
YOU SHOULD HAVE LISTENED TO HIM.
My skin prickled.
I typed:
Who is this?
Three dots appeared.
Then vanished.
No answer.
I called.
Disconnected number.
Someone knew about the boy.
Someone knew he had spoken to me.
I reached for the bedside lamp.
Before my hand touched it, I heard something in the hallway.
A floorboard.
Then the faint turning of my doorknob.
Locked.
The knob stopped.
Silence.
I held my breath.
A shadow passed beneath the door.
Then footsteps moved away.
I waited five full minutes.
Slowly, I pushed the blankets aside.
My legs trembled violently when I swung them over the edge of the mattress.
For the first time in ninety days, I tried to stand.
My knees buckled.
I caught the nightstand.
Pain shot through my hips.
But my feet were touching the floor.
Feeling the carpet.
Feeling pressure.
Feeling everything.
Tears streamed down my face.
“Come on,” I whispered.
I pushed again.
My body rose.
Six inches.
Then twelve.
Then I was standing.
Barely.
Shaking.
Bent over.
But standing.
I looked toward the full-length mirror across the room.
A pale, frightened young woman stared back.
Behind her, reflected through the partly open bathroom doorway, something moved.
I spun too quickly.
My legs collapsed.
I hit the carpet hard.
The bedroom door rattled again.
“Claire?”
Evelyn.
I dragged myself toward the bed.
“Claire?”
Another knock.
“Are you all right?”
I pulled myself up using the sheets just as a key entered the lock.
The door opened.
Evelyn stepped inside.
Her gaze moved from my face to the crooked rug near my wheelchair.
Then to my bare feet.
For one terrifying second, neither of us spoke.
“Why are you on that side of the bed?” she asked.
I forced a laugh.
“Dropped my phone.”
Her eyes stayed on me.
Then she smiled.
“You shouldn’t try reaching for things. You could hurt yourself.”
“I know.”
She walked closer.
“I heard a fall.”
“My water bottle.”
A pause.
Then she picked up the cup from my nightstand.
Empty.
Her expression softened.
“Good girl.”
She turned toward the door.
“Sleep well.”
When she was gone, I looked down.
Beside the nightstand, half hidden under the rug, lay a tiny silver object I had knocked loose during the fall.
I picked it up.
A miniature microphone.
My bedroom had been bugged.
And suddenly I understood something much worse.
May you like
The person poisoning me was not merely trying to make me sick.
They were making sure I stayed that way.
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