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I can’t see; the smoke is filling the room. I don’t see fire, only pinkish smoke that wafts all around me. “Are you both OK?” I hear Chief Errington; he sounds very close. “Yeah, I’m good, just can’t see very well,” I hear Officer Lopez. “I can barely see, and my eyes are burning,” I manage to say. “It’s a smoke grenade. Stay down to the ground as much as possible and cover your mouth. We are going to need to crawl out, but we can go out back. Follow my voice,” Chief Errington says. I’m on my hands and knees, and I try to feel my way, but with one hand covering my mouth and the other on the ground, it’s difficult to balance myself, and it’s so smoky. “I can’t see anything,” I say, panicking. I hear Officer Lopez’s voice get closer. “I’m right here. Just follow my voice.” I barely see a shadow before me, so I follow it, but I have to use both hands, or I will fall. “We’re nearly there,” she says, and I keep crawling until I hear her say, “Stop.” Suddenly, a door flies open, and I can breathe fresh air. Officer Lopez helps me up as we stagger outside. “Are you two all right?” Chief Errington says. We both nod, and I cough, trying to get the smoke I likely inhaled out of my lungs. He grabs the small, rectangular radio attached to his shirt and pushes a button telling dispatch what happened. “Follow me, ladies.” I do as instructed, and by now, he’s drawn his gun, slowly walking. Officer Lopez also takes her gun out of her holster and follows. “Okay, stay here while I go around the perimeter and ensure there’s no threat.” He ducks around the corner while I wait with Officer Lopez. I’m still shaking, my heart racing as if I’m running fast. Fight or flight is in overdrive, but I have to think clearly. “Are you sure you’re OK?” Officer Lopez places her hand on my shoulder. I want to say that I’m not and let loose the tears I’ve had to bottle up for days, but right now is not the time. “Yes, just a lot of smoke, and my eyes burn, and my arms are a little itchy.” “Yeah, that’s normal. We're heading to the ER as soon as all is clear.” “Oh, we don’t have to do that, do we?” “Yes, it’s protocol. We need to make sure everything is OK. Depending on the material used in the smoke grenade, it can cause injury. We need to have you checked out.” “What about you and the Chief?” “Believe me; this isn’t the first time we’ve dealt with smoke grenades. We’re used to it, but we still will get checked out.” A few minutes later, I hear “All clear,” and I can breathe a little easier. Chief Errington comes back around. “Whoever it was is long gone. They wanted to send a message, just not sure why. In any case, I’ve got back up coming any minute, and the ambulance and fire truck is on their way too.” Sure enough, I hear sirens blaring our way. Within a minute or so, we are surrounded by help. I’m loaded onto a stretcher and wheeled into the ambulance. Once inside, they put an oxygen mask around my mouth and nose, and I breathe it in. I see a scurry of activity as they apply a blood pressure cuff around my arm and have me hold an oxygen meter on my index finger. I then feel a cold stethoscope being placed within my blouse as the EMT listens to my heartbeat. “Blood pressure 100/140, a little high, but that’s to be expected - heart rate is 102. Oxygen is 90%.” He jots down the information. “Is everything OK?” I hear my voice muffled. “Yes, we just need to run some tests and get you oxygen therapy at the hospital. You inhaled the smoke, and you’ve got some rashes developing on your arms and face, an effect of the smoke.” I turn and look down at my arms and see blotchy red spots and realize that’s why I was starting to itch. “Oh, yeah, they are itchy.” I had only ever been in an ambulance once before, and that was after a car accident 20 years prior. It wasn’t bad, but I had a concussion and bruised ribs. I look around and see it looks like a min hospital clinic with carts bolted to the floor. Six drawers, in two rows, are probably carrying medical supplies. An IV with a bag attached stands next to the EMT. He looks to be about forty, give or take, and his short, blonde hair contrasts with his tanned skin. His olive eyes look kind, and when he smiles, there are two perfect dimples on each side of his mouth. His jawline looks slender, and no wonder since he has no fat but plenty of muscle that fills out his navy blue uniform, which reads PARAMEDIC across his chest. “Thank you for your help,” I say, even though I know he’s just doing his job. “That’s what I’m here for, ma’am.” He feels my forehead. “No fever, that’s good.” We arrive at the hospital, and they wheel me into the ER and a pure white room. A flurry of activity surrounds me. The white curtain has been drawn. I’m hooked up to an IV, blood has been drawn, another oxygen mask is placed over my mouth and nose, and I’m being asked questions. I’m trying hard to focus, but I’m tired and want to sleep. A while later, the doctor then comes in with a toothy grin and says, “How’s my favorite patient right now?” He’s tall, I mean, really tall, as I glance up at his happy, shiny face. His deep blue eyes are flecked with a bit of green, and his dark hair is sprinkled gray. He looks like he could be my younger brother’s age, about 62, except for not quite as chunky in the middle. “I’m Ok, just a little itchy,” I say, really wanting to scratch. “Yeah, that’s to be expected. I’m Doctor Wagstaff. I’m sure you met Nurse Beckstead. I’ve had her give you something to counter the effects.” He flips the papers over in my chart. “Did some blood work. I don’t like your liver enzymes, and your blood pressure is a little high for my liking. Let's get your oxygen again." The nurse puts the oxygen meter back on my finger. “93, coming back up,” the nurse says. "Oh good, levels are better now than when you first were checked. Most everything looks okay for your age.” My age? Okay, yeah, I’m up there somewhat, but it’s not like I’m 80. Still, I know he’s being cautious, and I appreciate it. “However, I would like to keep you overnight for observation to see if the pressure comes down and the enzymes have stabilized.” He stops, looks at the chart, and then back at me with a concerned look. “There is one thing I saw that I want to talk to you about.” I start to panic a little. What did he see? Do I have some kind of disease? “I did notice you have elevated levels of a drug in your system that I wouldn’t think a woman of your age should have.” Again with the “your age.” “Oh?” I struggle to remember anything I have taken since I haven’t taken the meds my nephew had my doctor prescribe me. “I mean, it’s necessary if you have issues with your heart, blood pressure or have migraines. And although your blood pressure is a little high, that’s more to do with what just happened to you. But still, have you been told you have high blood pressure and been prescribed Propranolol Hydrochloride? It’s a beta-blocker used to treat the conditions I mentioned. What I’m concerned about is 1. How much is in your system, and 2. The combination with the smoke you just inhaled.” I give him a puzzled look. “I do remember being prescribed something for anxiety I had a while ago.” I go back to the small dark blue capsule my nephew gave me, the ones I stuff under my mattress. Could that be it? But he told me it was for dementia. But, if I haven’t been taking it, then … does my nephew know I’m not taking them, and he’s been putting them in my juice? “Hmmmm … I need to get a hold of your doctor and straighten this out.” He’s going to find out what my nephew did. I can’t have that happen.  “It’s Ok. My nephew took me to the doctor, and they prescribed it to me for panic attacks I get sometimes. He gives me three capsules a day.” The doctor’s eyebrows shoot up. “Three times a day? You should only take it once in the morning, as it’s a time-release dose.” He flips the papers back down. “I’ll be back. I need to check on something.” He leaves, but not before whispering to the nurse who was taking my vitals, and she rushes out of the room. Every thought imaginable floods me. How did my nephew not know I wasn’t taking the meds, and I thought they were for dementia? A beta blocker is to slow down blood pressure and heartbeat, but I’ve always been told I have lower-than-normal blood pressure. As a teenager, I had something called POTS, Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome, a blood circulation disorder where your heartbeat goes sky high when standing, but the blood stays mainly in the lower body. Running up the stairs, my heart would beat so fast, but I felt lightheaded, as the blood wasn't circulating up to my head correctly, and the fast heartbeat was to get blood to my brain. Most of the time, I would nearly pass out. But that was decades ago, and I grew out of it in my 20s. It mainly affects slender, tall girls. That was me, nearly 5’9, but now, I’m barely 5’7 on a good day. Doctors attributed it to my car accident when the curvature of my spine was affected. I hunch over more now as a result. I come back to reality when the doctor comes back in. “Well, darling, I called and talked to your doctor, who said he did prescribe the capsules for a panic disorder a year ago but told your nephew only to give you one a day." He takes my hand and then says something I thought I'd never hear about a family member. "He's been giving you way more than you need, and I believe he's been trying to overdose you." He lets out a deep sigh and then continues. "Your doctor prescribed only 10 milligrams, but your blood showed elevations equal to 30 milligrams. Now, that's not necessarily bad if you need it, but you only needed 10 milligrams because of your age and medical history of low blood pressure. "The higher dosage could result in hypoxia, meaning too low blood pressure, which for you could cause you to pass out or have trouble breathing. With really high doses, you could have symptoms of tachycardia, leading to a heart attack. Now, couple that with your exposure to this smoke, which can be dangerous in and of itself, and you have a recipe for disaster, so to speak. "So I’m going to give you some charcoal through your IV and some electrolytes and keep you on oxygen for a while. Nurse Beckstead will be here if needed.” The shortish woman with long red hair pulled into a ponytail and wearing baby blue scrubs smiled, her hazel eyes sparkling. She had a touch of makeup on, some light brown eyeliner, a touch of pink cheeks, and a subtle pink lipstick that gave her a natural look. She starts ripping into a package. “Okay, thanks, doctor,“ I mumble. Right now, I don't know how or what to feel. Was my nephew trying to kill me, or was this all part of the "dementia" plan, and when I got so bad or even died, they would attribute it to the disease, not him overdosing me? “I need to contact Chief Errington as well. Your nephew has some explaining to do.”  Inside, I'm panicking. If he finds out he’s been caught; my family will pay the price. But I can’t stop the doctor when he pulls out his phone, and I watch him punch in the number. What have I done?

I contemplate what to message Patrice as I sit in the kitchen chair. Officer Lopez is talking to Chief Errington next to me. I also wonder what my nephew said to the police. Who was the person that shot him, and will that revelation connect to Troy’s murder? Another horrible thought crashes through my mind – if this man lives, or worse, dies, will someone come for revenge? Suddenly, I don’t feel as safe, even with Officer Lopez here, but I can’t spend my life being afraid. Instead, I need to occupy myself. I wait for her to finish talking to Chief Errington. “I’m going to go out and do some gardening,” I tell her. She’s on her laptop typing. “Okay, I’ll come out and just ensure everything is safe.” She closes her laptop and follows me out back. She sits on the lawn chair while I go to the shed and get out my gardening bucket with fertilizer, gloves, shovels, and pruners. I go around and do maintenance on my gardens and turn on the water to ensure the sprinkler heads and the drip hoses are working correctly. It had been months since I was able to check. After a while, the heat is getting to me, so I stop and sit down by Officer Lopez. I wipe the sweat off my forehead and take a glass of water the officer brought out for me. “Thank you. Whew, well, I think everything is good now,” I say, watching her type so fast I can barely see what she’s typing. I notice the time on her laptop read 2:42 PM. I didn’t realize I had worked that long. No wonder I’m tired. After a few minutes, she stops and turns to me. “You have a beautiful yard. I’ve always wanted to garden, but I have not time to put into it since I work 10 hours a day.” She sighs, and I can see that something is bothering her. “Do you get time to spend with your family?” I prod a little. “Yeah. I mean, I get two days off, so I spend as much time with my son and daughter, but they grow so quickly, you know?” Oh, yes, I do know. “Yes, I have two sons of my own, five grandchildren, and three great-grandchildren.” “Wow, that’s great.” Her happy face then turns sad, with her mouth downturned. “Chief told me your husband passed four years ago.” “Yes, he seemed so healthy, and then he didn’t wake up one morning. It was just natural causes, apparently.” I shrug and then wonder if I should mention anything about my nephew and why he was here, but then think better of it. I remember the warning about my family, and now that I know he is capable of committing murder, I need to stay quiet. “How awful that you and your family weren’t even able to say goodbye to him.” I think back to that morning, and the shock at finding my husband of 45 years was gone. The night before, we had visited my son and the grandkids for the Fourth of July, and the following day when I turned over to wake him, he didn’t respond. I came over to his side and knew immediately that he was gone. I was numb when I called 911, and it took me a few days to accept his death. A year later, my nephew “volunteered” to care for me because my sons didn’t have room in their home. I didn’t realize he was only after my money and to have a free place to live. When he told my sons I had dementia, the doctors figured it was from my husband dying so quickly. And then the threat from my nephew. Sometimes, I cry at night quietly and talk to Willis. I ask him how he’s doing and tell him how I am. At times, I ask him why he had to die before me. It wasn’t fair. “Well, we had 45 years together. I couldn’t have asked for a better partner.” Officer Lopez smiles warmly at me. I feel like we have a connection now. A few hours go by, and my stomach starts to growl while watching  but I’m not sure how to broach the subject to Officer Lopez. It’s like she’s reading my mind because she says, “It’s almost 6:00; you hungry?” “Oh yes,” I say a little too enthusiastically. “Feel like heading to Dale’s Diner?” It sounds so good that I feel my mouth watering. The diner has been in Grantsville for nearly 40 years and is a family diner, first with Dale Senior and then his son took over, Dale Junior. “That sounds good, but I don’t have much money,” I say, taking a deep breath. My nephew controls my accounts. “No worries. Chief gave me money to take you for food and get you groceries. Given the circumstances, he said it was the least he could do.” I was surprised but thankful someone was watching out for me. “Oh, how nice. Thank you,” I say, touching her shoulder lightly. I'm ready after changing my clothes and doing my hair and a little makeup. I don’t go out much, so this is a treat to be out in public. But then my fear takes over. What if someone is watching me? Would they follow us to the diner? The man who tried to kill my nephew and would have killed me is in the hospital, fighting for his life. I am safe. We leave the house, first making sure all the doors are locked and windows are shut tightly and locked as well. Officer Lopez starts the car and turns the radio down as we quietly ride to the diner. I had never been in a police car before, and I notice a large GPS monitor lighting up the screen. Grantsville got all-new cars a few years ago, and these are quite nice, with plush back seats. The cage separating us from the front and back rattles a little, but not enough to be annoying. As I watch the scenery go by, people enjoying summer in the park, and a few people walking their dogs, I steal back in time to when our kids were younger and we took them to Grantsville Park. Back then, there were steel swings, a merry-go-round, a long metal slide, and a jungle gym. Times have changed; now everything is hard plastic, and there is no longer the playground equipment me and my boys grew up with. We pull into the parking lot. It's packed, as usual. The last thought I have before walking into the diner is about Patrice and wondering what she’s doing, if anything, with the message I sent her. I decide to send her another message – a riddle about arsenic. _______________________________________________________________ Daniel’s Diner is the only one in town. It's a 50s-style diner that the kids loved when they were younger. Their shakes and malts are all natural and bigger than I can ever eat, and their burgers are charbroiled, not greasy, and they use pretzel buns with just the right amount of crunch. The fries are nice and thick, with lots of salt. And they have the best grilled cheese. As I look around, I see families eating, a few kids standing up on the maroon benches, and parents doting on babies. An old red jukebox sits in the corner, and I doubt any kids even know what it is, let alone how to operate it. The red and white checkered tile is always swept and mopped every night. I know because I used to work there when I was a teenager.  The lights are unique, with a four-prong silver chandelier above each of the benches and tables. To order, you pick up a phone and put in your order and then the phone actually rings when it’s ready. A time or two, I saw kids stare at it, not sure what to do. Daniel’s Diner is quite famous, even for out-of-towners, mainly because it sits right off the highway. Officer Lopez said I could order whatever I wanted, so when she came back with a bacon burger, fries, and a strawberry shake, I dig in. “I love this place,” Officer Lopez said while I stuff my face. “Yes, I worked here as a teenager. Back then, I dyed my hair this very red color, just to see what it would look like. After that, I was known as 'Raggedy Ann'". I go back to the day I dyed my hair and my mother staring at me with the widest eyes I‘d ever seen. She shook her head and said, “The 60’s are sure messed up. ”When I went to work the next day, I was teased by my coworkers, except for one girl who told me I looked rad. We become friends after. The owners, though, didn’t care what I looked like. It seemed they really cared and still do for their employees - such a rarity these days.” Officer Lopez's eyes light up, and she snaps her fingers. “Wait, my mom worked here as well.” “Really? When?” “I think she had told me when I was younger that she was, I think, 16.” “I was 15 when I worked here. What’s her name?” Officer Lopez looks at me a little oddly, and then a recognition shines on her face. Her eyes pop out. “Oh my God, I remember my mom saying she worked with a girl with the coolest red hair!” I lean forward and take her hands, which hindsight, probably wasn’t the best thing to do. “Carmen!” “Yes, that was my mom’s name!” “Oh my, what a small world! We worked together for nearly two years until she quit at 18 and went to college. After that, I only talked to her for a bit, and then she just stopped calling. I got married and had kids, and we just went our separate ways. But she helped me survive working long hours in the summers.” I then remember Officer Lopez said her mother died years ago. “Yeah, she talked to us kids about her days at ‘The Diner.’ I’m glad you became friends with her because she was labeled weird, and kids didn’t know how to deal with her. She had some mental issues back then, and they were very much stigmatized. A few times, she tried committing suicide before being diagnosed with Bipolar. She got help and medication, which saved her life.” I never knew that about Carmen. I knew she was quiet and shy and didn’t follow the latest trends or fads. She wore whatever she wanted and didn’t care what people thought. But I also remember when her moods would shift quickly. One day, she would be more upbeat and would even drag me to the mall, and we would take pictures in the photo booth; other days, she was sullen and quiet. We both eat silently the rest of the time, and I notice it’s well after 7:30 when we leave. The sun is dropping behind the horizon, but it still feels warm, and a slight breeze tickles my face. Right now, it feels like everything will be all right. On the way home, I don't notice too much a black sedan in the rearview mirror until every time I look, it's there. It seems to be following us. I started watching it since it pulled onto the road shortly after we did. I wrestle with telling Officer Lopez, but I inform her when I see it backing off but still following when she turns on my street. “I think someone is following us,” I say, still looking in the mirror. “Yeah, I figured,” she says, looking in her rearview mirror. “What should we do?” “The best thing is to go past your house and straight to the police station. I will see if I can get a license plate number if you can remember the color and make of the car.” It’s hard to see the logo or identification with it being behind us, but it’s black with a sunroof – that I can see. We pass my house and back out of the neighborhood and onto the street. The car is still following but then pulls over and stops. Maybe they know we are onto them, so they park to throw us off. “The car stopped,” I tell Officer Lopez. “Yeah. I think they know we aren’t going to your house. Let’s head to the police station and let Chief know, but first, I want to go back around and see if we can get their plate from behind.” We turn the corner, and she quickly drives back onto our street and then slowly drives back out on the road, but by this time, the car is gone. “Damn.” Officer Lopez hits the steering wheel. “Well, it was worth a shot.” She drives to the police station, and I follow her in and straight to the Chief's office. It’s nearly dark now, but I could see him hunched over some papers, a bright lamp lighting the room. “Do you ever leave this place?” Officer Lopez says. He looks up, startled. “Hey, Lopez. What are you doing here?” He scrunches his forehead and looks at me. “Are you OK?” “Chief, we just got back from Daniel’s, and while on the road, we both noticed that a car was following us. Instead of driving to the house, I went past, and he pulled over and parked right after getting back on the main road. I thought if I went back around, I could see if the car was still there and possibly get their plates, but they were gone. The car is a black sedan with a sunroof, but I couldn’t make out what type of car it was.” Chief Errington sits back and lets out a deep sigh. “Okay, we'll put out a BOLO for this car.” He contacts one of the beat officers and relays the information Officer Lopez gave him. “Stay put for a bit, and let’s see if we can get a hit. Hopefully, we can find the car.” Suddenly, we hear a shatter that pierces the silence. I duck down, my heart racing fast as my body shakes. I then smell something strong. Is that

I clamp my hand over my mouth. Is that my nephew? Or did he shoot someone? I immediately grab my phone, quietly slip out of my bed, go to the bathroom, and close the door even more quietly. My hands are shaking as I call 911. “Emergency services I whisper, “I just heard a shot outside my bedroom. My nephew and I live here, and I don’t know if he shot someone or if someone shot him.” “Okay, where are you?” I give them my address. “I have someone dispatched. Stay on the phone with me and tell me what you hear.” The panic is rising, and I feel like I’m going to hyperventilate.   I try to hear anything, but I don’t have my hearing aid in, so it’s difficult. “Ma’am, do you hear or see anything?” “I’m in my bathroom with the door closed.” “Okay, stay there. Police are 5 minutes out.” What is that phrase? When seconds count, the police are minutes away. Anything can happen in 5 minutes. Suddenly, I hear another thump and tell dispatch. I hear grunting and can’t tell if it’s my nephew or someone else. Are they dragging the body? Do they know I’m here? I’m starting to shake. “Ma’am, are you still there?” “Yes, I’m just panicking. I’m an older woman and frightened for my life.” “Okay, take some deep breaths with me. Dispatch is 3 minutes out.” She breathes in and out and instructs me to do the same. “Count to 4 in, hold for 5, then slowly breathe out for 7 seconds.” I do as instructed, which helps a little. I do it for a few minutes, and then I hear sirens. “Okay, ma’am, they are on the street. Just stay put.” I listen and hear the sirens growing closer, and then I hear, “Oh shit," and then footsteps clomping. Shortly after, the cops burst into the house, and I hear, “Stop, hands up!” “Ma’am, are you OK?” I forgot about the dispatcher. “Yes, the police are here and have caught someone.” “Okay, I’m going to get off the phone, but I have let them know you are in an upstairs master bathroom.” “Thank you so much,” I start to cry. “You’re welcome. I’m glad you are OK. The police will be up there shortly. Take care.” Then the phone drops, and seconds later, the police open the door. “Ma’am, are you OK?” A stocky, tall police officer of about 45 holds out my hand. His light blue eyes look kind, and coupled with his dark hair, remind me of my late husband. “Yes, thank you.” I take his hand, and he takes me out of my room. When I pass by my nephew’s room, I see a ton of blood smeared across the room. Where is he? “My nephew … “ “Yes, he’s talking to the police officer. It looked like someone had broken into the home, and he heard it, so grabbed his gun. When the suspect came into the room, he shot him. The man had a knife and was coming towards your nephew.” I breathe a sigh of relief. Even though I’m angry with him, I don’t want him dead. But now, I worry about the man he shot and if it’s connected to Troy’s murder. “Is the man dead?” “No, but he’s pretty bad. He was shot in the stomach.” By now, ambulances, fire trucks, and more police arrive at my home. “We’ll stay up here until the man is moved to the ambulance. I want to keep you anonymous.” That makes me feel a little safer, but then I remember earlier when I saw a car driving slowly, watching me, and then he parked next door and waited. What if? A new panic rises in my throat. I need to tell this police officer. “Umm … I saw someone driving by my home earlier. He was driving slowly and staring at me as I was out front watering my plants. He parked at my neighbor’s home and stayed there for a while.” The police officer turns to me. “Did you get a good look at him?” I think. “Well, he had light brown hair, but I couldn’t really see his eyes very well. I did notice a scar on his face, kind of by his left ear.” I see on his badge that he is Officer Camden. I thought I saw him with The Chief of Police, Grayson Errington when they talked to the press about Troy’s murder. He nods and says, “That’s him.” So, he knows Troy, but he saw me. Was he going to come after me after he killed my nephew? That thought makes me shiver. “Are you OK?” He says, putting his hand on my shoulder. “I think so. If Troy hadn’t shot him, he probably would have come for me.” “Likely, so I’m glad your nephew stopped him.” I realize I owe my life to him. Maybe he does care for me. But why keep me here and tell me I have dementia, which I know I don’t have? Is he doing that to protect me? And why was this thug going after him? Did he know about the murder, or did he see something that night? Could it have been the one who hired him? The questions won’t stop swirling in my mind as I sit at the police station, being interviewed by Officer Camden and Chief Grayson, who goes by Gray. I’m exhausted, and when I look at my watch, I realize it’s after midnight. My nephew is in another room, talking to investigators. I never saw him when I came in with Officer Camden. I just want to go home and sleep, but not by myself, and I have no idea when my nephew can leave. A few hours later, we're done, and Officer Camden says, “I know you're tired, and I appreciate your report. I don’t want you to be alone tonight, so I asked Officer Lopez, a female police officer, to stay with you for a few days. She can stay on your couch, but she will be there.” I politely thank him and wait for Officer Lopez to take me home. A few minutes after, she walks out of Gray’s office. She stops by her desk, picks up some papers, and then walks toward me. She looks somewhat like Officer Sanchez. Her long, dark, and high ponytail swings back and forth, and her oval chocolate eyes have a kind look about them as we make eye contact. She's at least 5 inches taller than my small frame of 5’4, and she doesn't have a lick of fat on her. I can see she doesn't wear much makeup, just smoky eyeliner, pink blush, and a touch of red lipstick that looks slightly darker than her lips. She stops in front of me. “Hi, my name is Officer Veronica Lopez." She holds out her hand, and I shake it. "Officer Camden okayed it with t he Chief for me to escort you home and stay with you for a few days. I need to drop by my home and grab some things. Are you OK with that?” “Yes, that’s fine. Thank you.” “You’re welcome. Okay, let’s go.” I get up and watch the frenzy in the room. Computers are all on, with officers typing. A large TV in the front is on and tuned to what looks like a database of names. Maybe they’re trying to identify the one who was shot or get more information on my nephew. I follow Officer Lopez out of the police station. It’s dark, but the full moon shone brightly, lighting our way. Even though someone was shot there, I just want to go home and sleep. I feel safe with the officer, in any case. I stay in the police car while Officer Lopez goes into her home. About five minutes later, she returns with a bag, dropping it in the back after getting into the car. We are silent as we drive back to my place. It’s nearly 3:00 AM, and my eyes are so heavy. I get into my home and tell Officer Lopez I’m going to bed, but tell her she can use blankets and pillows in the hallway closet. Tonight, I can’t even think of the day’s events. I place my glasses on the nightstand, climb into bed, and, before long, drift off. ___________________________________________________________ The next day, the sun beaming through my window, wakes me up. I look over to the clock, and it’s nearly 11:30 AM. I yawn and pick up my glasses. My mouth feels parched, and I just want some water, but I smell the unmistakable aroma of bacon. I get up and realize I’m still in the same clothes as last night. I need to take a shower. After taking a shower, dressing, and brushing my hair, I walk out of the room and, by habit, look inside my nephew’s room. I can still see the blood, and I have to look away. I wonder if he’s still at the police station or if he was allowed to come home. He wasn’t in bed, so if he did come home, he was already up. I walk downstairs and follow the smell into the kitchen, where I see Officer Lopez placing two plates on the table, one has three slices of bacon, two eggs, and two pieces of toast, and the other has one egg, one slice of bacon, and one piece of toast. Two glasses of orange juice are in front of the plate. “Oh good, you’re up. I didn’t know how hungry you were, so I have two plates here, and you can choose which one you want.” I don’t realize how hungry I am until I look at the plates; however, I can’t eat the bigger amount, so I take the plate with one piece of everything and the juice. “Thank you, you’re so kind to fix breakfast.” “Of course. I just went to the store and picked up some food because there wasn’t much in the fridge or pantry. Have you been eating OK?” I think back on what my nephew gets at the store, which isn’t much. It seems I eat oatmeal, yogurt, maybe an orange and apple, and TV dinners. I can’t remember when he made me eggs. “My nephew doesn’t have time to get much. This looks delicious.” “I’m a mom to two kids and learned how to cook when I was ten. My mother worked two jobs while my father was in the military. He was gone more than a few times for a year or longer. He was in the Army and liked being at the front. After being in the military for 30 years, he was discharged after he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. He’s now in a memory wing of an assisted living center in Salt Lake City.” She stops, puts some bacon in her mouth, and then utters, “Sorry, didn’t mean to spill my life story.” “No, it’s OK. I miss just talking to people. Your father sounds like a great man.” “He is.” Tears well up in her eyes, but she swipes them away quickly. “I miss that I can’t talk to him like I used to, and now, he doesn’t even know who I am. He’s 70, but sometimes when I see him, he looks a decade or older. That disease is so cruel.” I nod, knowing what she’s going through, as my mother had dementia and died of a major stroke five years after being diagnosed. She was 74. My father had passed away five years before her in a horrific car accident caused by a drunk driver. He was returning from Salt Lake from his job as a power plant operator of 30 years, from which he would retire the following year. He was late because of a major storm that knocked out a central power grid earlier that night. It was nearly midnight and about 10 miles away from home when he was t-boned. The drunk ran through a red light when my father was turning left. He was tired, and I’m sure he thought turning on a yellow wouldn’t turn into tragedy. He was in a coma for three months but sadly, never woke up. We took him off life support so he could slip away. He was 71. It devastated my mother. They were married for fifty years, he was two years older, and my mother said after his funeral, “I don’t know how to live without him. He knew how to do everything I needed. What am I going to do?” She had been diagnosed with dementia two years prior and was coping with him by her side. After his death, she went downhill.  I took her in as I was the oldest of four children. My two younger brothers and sister had all moved out of Grantsville, so they couldn’t take her. We took her in until she had a major stroke. A few months later, she died. That was twenty years ago when I was 49. “Are you going to eat?” Officer Lopez threw me back to the present. I look down at my plate and realize I have only eaten a bit of toast. “Oh, yes, sorry. Sometimes my mind just wanders.” I start eating. “That I understand. Look, after breakfast, how about if we go out back and get a little sun.” She put her fork down. She was finished with all her food. “What about my nephew? Did he come home? I didn’t see him in his room.” I turn and look out the kitchen and into the living room, wondering if he slept on the couch there since Officer Lopez apparently slept on the couch in the family room, which was on the other side of the house. “No. I assume he stayed in a cell since he shot a man and nearly killed him. Chief will keep him there until his court date in a few days.” “I see. What about the … blood in his room?” “That will get cleaned up.” “Oh, okay.” After eating, I take the plate to the sink, and as I’m washing it, my phone buzzes. I take it out of my pocket and see the message: OK, I’LL BITE. It came from Patrice Summers. Suddenly, it becomes real. I just put her in danger.

It’s been a few days, and I haven’t heard from Patrice, and wonder if I made a mistake in texting her. But I try again; this time, it’s a riddle about arsenic. It should be easy to solve. I wait but see no message back. Maybe it’s good she doesn’t text back – at least for now. If she reads it, that’s all I care about; but then maybe I’m texting no one because she’s already blocked me. I open YouTube on my phone and go to her channel. Her last video was a few days ago about fall planting. I feel frustrated that I won’t be able to plant some fall flowers since I have no car. However, I could maybe order some and do some planting when my nephew is at work. Yes, I could do that. I go to my favorite online nursery and pick out some yellow and purple pansies, ornamental cabbage, and kale, with a few Echinacea to fill in the back garden. The suspected ship date is in a few weeks, just in time for September planting. I feel better and start humming. The house looks a mess, so I start cleaning. My nephew can’t expect me to stay in bed all day, even if I did have so-called dementia. I’m not an invalid. And it’s  house. A few hours later, I wipe the sweat off my forehead, sit with a cold glass of milk, and surf Facebook to see if any of the kids or grandkids have posted. That’s the only reason why I have social media. A few of the grandkids have posted some summer vacation pictures, and I liked and commented on them. After, I check out some gardening sites and watch some more YouTube videos. I go out front and take a tour of my gardens and want to cry. The weeds are taking over a few of my smaller gardens by the lawn, and speaking of the lawn, it’s much higher than it was a few weeks ago. I doubt my nephew does any yard maintenance, so I call my good friend’s grandson, who does yard care and who has come in the past, and get an appointment to have him come out and weed, mow, and trim some bushes. Thankfully, one of those smart meters does the watering automatically, so my flowers still look nice. Earlier in late spring, I planted tomatoes, cucumbers, green and yellow peppers, onions, and zucchini in our raised beds that my late husband Willis built for me about ten years ago. It’s been five years since he passed; died in his sleep. He was 67, and I was 65. Why do male spouses die earlier and leave females alone? The sun had gone down when I came back in. My nephew will be coming home soon, and I realize I haven’t ordered any food. Once I submit my DashDoor order, I turn back on the TV to  to see if a good mystery can keep me occupied until dinner arrives.  True to their word, a knock on my door signals that dinner is here. Good, because it’s nearly 8:30, and I’m starving. I first use the bathroom and grab one of my pills upstairs so that I can “prove” I remembered to take my meds. When I open the door and grab the food, I see an unfamiliar grayish car drive by slowly, watching me. It's nearly dark, so I can't get a good look at him. Suddenly, my heart starts racing, and I quickly close the door and lock it. I then flip open one of the foyer blinds and notice the car has pulled over to the neighbor’s house to the right of mine. I feel panic rising in my chest. It couldn’t be the DoorDash driver since they quickly drop the food off, take a picture, and then leave for the next home. Who is this, and why are they parked at my neighbor’s house? I contemplate calling my nephew. He may not care a lot about me, but I know he will protect me. I wait to see if this person leaves, but after a few minutes, I pick up my burger and start eating, still watching through my blinds. When my food is gone, and I’m about to call my nephew, the car pulls out and leaves. Even though I can breathe easier, I still have butterflies thinking about who it was and why they were parked outside. Could they have been looking for an address and pulled over to check their map? That’s likely what happened, and I’m letting my imagination go wild. Still, I can’t get the thought out of my head that the person was watching me - no expression, just staring at me as he drove by. Another very terrifying thought occurs to me. What if this is Devin, and he didn’t know about me and now has found out? Am I just another loose end for him? After all, he only knows about the four people who carried out the murder and the burial of Troy. Now that he knows, I’m a target. Soon after, my nephew comes in looking tired.  I’m sure he’s not sleeping well since he killed someone and then had his friends dump the body, and now a ring has been lost at the crime scene that was just discovered today. Actions have consequences. I grab the food bag from the floor. “Hi. Are you hungry?” I had bought a burger for him as well. “Yeah, starving.” He grabs the bag I hold out to him. I’ve been watching a murder mystery and turn down the volume. “How is work?” I ask, trying to carry on a friendly conversation. My nephew has changed so much. No longer is he the quiet, respectful, and kind person he was years ago. It’s like he hates the world now. His dark brown hair is nearing his chin, and his brown eyes look bloodshot, and I know he drinks and does drugs, and he looks like it too. His jeans are dirty, and his dark blue shirt shows off his tanned muscles. He works as a mason for a local company, so often comes home dirty and exhausted. I believe he gets paid well, but he works at least 10 hours daily. He told me years ago that working is the only thing that keeps him from his “evil thoughts.” I believed him. “It’s work.” He looks at me, his eyebrows narrowing. My heartbeat starts to rise. “Why are you being so nice?” “Well, you’re my nephew, and I care. It just seems like you’ve been stressed out lately, so I figured it was from work," I say, taking on a more serious tone, hoping he bought it. His face softens, and he says, “Yeah, work has been crazy, and some other things going on with workers haven’t helped.” Yeah, I’m sure since two of his coworkers are also his accomplices to Troy’s murder, and one of them lost his wife’s ring in the same place they dumped his body. “I’m sure it’s hard being a manager and dealing with workers. I remember when I was a manager in the marketing agency I worked in many years ago, and you had to deal with workers stressed about their job or home situation. You had to be empathetic but still firm. It was a challenge to balance the two. There were days I just wanted to crawl in a hole because I had to answer to my manager about why the team I managed wasn’t exceeding expectations of the company. As a manager, it falls on you to explain why.” I feel like I’m rambling and stop. My nephew isn’t even paying attention, as he’s punching in what looks to be a message on his phone. I go back to watching TV, turning the volume up. A little while later, my nephew gets up and says, “I’m headed to bed,” which is also my cue to go into my bedroom, even though I’m in the middle of my show. It IS my home, and I should be able to go to sleep when I want to, and I feel irritated that he controls me. But I also don’t want to cause ripples right now, especially since he’s being nice. In my room, and after I have “taken” my meds, I pull out my phone and text Patrice about the ring. They can test it for his DNA if she can find it before Colton does. Of course, this would only implicate Colton, not my nephew. I want them all arrested, especially the one who instigated it, but I still don’t have evidence of who hired the group to kill Troy. After reading a while, I feel my eyes getting fatigued. But as soon as I put my book away and turn off my lamp, I hear a gunshot. Then … a   shortly after.

I barely slept. I thought of every scenario of the good, bad, and ugly. I want so badly to just call the police and end it right now, but I can’t. It will get back to my nephew that I told them since I was the only one here. I think about how I should act today. I have no idea if they are coming here first or if my nephew will just be waiting for the “deed” to be done. I almost don’t dare leave my room, even though I’m starving and barely had dinner last night. I look at the clock, and it reads 7:22 AM. I doubt he’s even up, but who knows. I’d better check. I grab my robe, open the door as quietly as possible, and tiptoe down the hall to his bedroom. I peer in and see him fast asleep. Sometimes, he’ll sleep in late when he’s been out partying. When they left yesterday, I didn’t hear him come in until late, so he could sleep for a few more hours. This gives me time to get something to eat and maybe go outside for a bit. He doesn’t let me out often, and I miss the breeze on my face and feeling the warm sun. I return to my room, change into some comfortable pants and a blouse, and put on my shoes. I look in the mirror and notice my slivery shoulder-length bob needs a wash and wish I could put some makeup on my wrinkly skin, or at least put on some lipstick and rouge and maybe some eyeshadow to bring out the blue in my eyes. I feel like I’m also shrinking. I’m not too tall or short, about 5’7, but lately, I feel more hunched over. I don’t like getting old, and I don’t like the meds my nephew makes me take for my supposed dementia. They make me tired and forgetful; maybe that’s his plan. I go slowly down the stairs and hope nothing creaks. I get to the bottom and let out a small sigh. The day is bright, with the sun streaming through the kitchen. I hope he went shopping. I open the fridge and see some yogurt and grab it. I then check the pantry and find some oatmeal and granola – my favorite. I take it out, pour some in a bowl, and turn on the hot water so I don’t use the microwave. I find a spoon and sit down at the table and eat. I almost devour the breakfast and drink some lemonade.   After, I slip out the back door and into the perfect day. The sun is bright, the birds are singing, and I see my rose bushes all blooming. At least I have a sprinkling system that automatically turns on to water my lawn and plants. I close my eyes and let the sun beat down on me. I should have put on sunscreen, especially given my history of skin cancer ten years ago, but I don’t care right now. I’m nearly 70, and if the good Lord wants to take me, so be it. I feel like a prisoner in my home and wish I could run away. I take out my phone and surf social media for a bit. A while later, I notice the sun peeking over the mountains and realize I have been out here for at least an few hours, but it feels so good. Still, I don’t want to upset my nephew, so I’d better go in. I open up the sliding glass door and shut it quietly. I don’t hear or see anyone, so I go back up the stairs and see he’s still asleep. I feel somewhat tired even though I’ve only been up for a few hours, but I also didn’t get much sleep. After I read for a while, my eyes begin to droop. A nap sounds good, as I lay the book on my nightstand and then lay down and put the covers over my head. ________________________________________________________________ I’m awakened by noises and hear my nephew downstairs. The room seems to be darker than when I went to sleep, and I’m shocked when I see that it’s nearly 5:00 PM. I slept all day, and my nephew didn’t wake me? “Is everything ready to go?” “Yeah. Petra and Greg went to get the body. They will text when they’re about 30 minutes away, so around 10:30, Ely and I will go to the house and start digging. It will probably take us at least 20 minutes or so to get the hole dug.” “This had better go flawlessly or else,” I hear a threatening tone. “It will. There’s no way we will screw this up when we’re getting paid thirty grand each.” “Yeah, well, I did my part, so I better get paid,” my nephew said. I just realized they’re all getting paid, so  hired them to kill Troy, but who? It does make me feel somewhat better that my nephew was only doing it because he’s getting paid and that this isn’t premeditated by him.  My mouth is so dry, and I need water and dinner since I’ve been asleep all day. I don’t think I can get my nephew’s attention unless I yell down at him, but then he may get upset. I have a glass by my bed, so I will just get some water in the bathroom and hold out on getting some food until he comes back upstairs. After closing the bedroom and bathroom door, I turn on the faucet just a little to get some water. I feel a little better after gulping it down. I turn on the TV and lower the volume so I have something to watch while waiting.  one of my favorite series, is coming on soon. I like going back to the time without mobile phones, the internet, and social media. We barely had one TV, which was black and white with an antenna you had to fiddle with to get decent reception. But we only had 3 channels, and the news was on at 6:00 and 10:00 at night, and that was it. You weren’t privy to everything going on in the world, and it was nice. Ignorance is bliss.   It’s after midnight when I hear voices and realize I have fallen asleep. I rub my eyes and put on my glasses and my hearing aid. It’s so tiny; no one ever knows you have it on. I’m able to hear perfectly. “It’s done,” is all I hear, and it’s from Petra. “Good. Did you hear anything? See a light come on from the neighbors?” My nephew says. “Nope. We were real quiet. No one suspects a thing.” If I could see her, I would know she was smiling. “Okay, so when we get paid?” Colton asks. “You took pics, right?” My nephew says. “Yep, a few. I even got one with the necklace on his chest,” Petra chuckles. “Awww … how cute,” Greg pipes in. Send me the pics, and I will forward them to Devin.” Darn, I really wish I could see their faces, but I don’t dare open the door and check over the banner. “Well, head home. Good job. I’ll let you know once Devin sends the transfer.” “How long is that going to be?” Colton seems impatient. “I don’t know, hopefully soon. Just lay low for a few days,” my nephew says. “I can’t wait too long. I have work, you know?” Petra sounds like she’s jangling keys. “Yeah, we all do. But we’ll each be $10,000 richer soon, well, except for me. I did the killing, so Devin promised me $20,000. Just hang tight,” my nephew says. A few minutes later, I hear the door close, and I quickly get back into bed, put away my glasses, and lay down with my eyes closed. Shortly thereafter, I hear my door creak open. I know it’s my nephew checking on me. My heart is racing, but thankfully, it’s dark, and he can’t see me. I hear him close the door, and I breathe out in relief. He doesn’t suspect a thing. _____________________________________________________________ It’s been nearly two months since the incident when I hear my nephew one morning yelling. I groggily wake up but then come wide awake when I hear, “What do you mean you lost Jenna’s ring? Where? When?” I get up and creep my way to the door. “I don’t know, man. I had it in my pocket because I was going to the jeweler to resize it and can’t find it now,” Colton sounds freaked out. “Okay, when was the last time you had it?” I hear nothing and then, “Oh shit. It was the night we dumped Troy.”  My head is spinning. “You’ve got to be kidding me! Are you saying you might have lost it in her  I don’t know, man, maybe.” “Maybe?” My nephew’s voice thunders. And then he says, “Shit, we’re gonna wake her up,” his voice is down a notch. Too late, nephew.    “How did you just figure out you lost it two months later? Didn’t Jenna say something?” “Yeah, and I told her it was still at the jeweler. I didn’t know what else to say.” “Damn it, Colt.” I have to tell Patrice. Colton will go back to the yard and try and find it. I have to warn her. “There’s one more thing,” Colton says. The police were just called to her home. Deanna found Troy.” “Oh shit.” I realize I have to text Patrice  . It’s the middle of August, and they dumped the body on June 25th. I pull her contact information I’ve had in my notes for two months, and text her a cryptic message about Asters and soil. I have no idea if she will think I’m some lunatic or even the killer. I hope she doesn’t delete the message and block me. I wait. And then another thought hits me. I have to message her anonymously and then delete each message. That could work! “You are one stupid son-of-a-bitch,” my nephew says. “Look, I said I’m sorry. I’ll go back in a few nights and see if I can find it.” “No. The cops will be swarming the place. Wait at least a week and hope they damn well don’t find it before you do.” “Okay.” I hear footsteps, and then the door closes. I quickly get back to bed before he catches me. He throws open the door just as I close my eyes. “Time to wake up and take your pill,” he tells me. I groggily open my eyes as if I’ve been asleep the whole time. “Oh, okay.” I rub my eyes and stretch. “I must have been way tired. I’m usually up by now.” I glance at the clock; it reads 8:15. I haven’t been sleeping much since this whole thing happened, but I tell my nephew I have been sleeping more. I have been getting up later, but it’s because I haven’t been getting to sleep until later too. It was after midnight until I finally drifted off last night. He goes into my bathroom, takes out the pill bottle, and brings it into the room with a glass of water. He hands me both, and I put the pill in my mouth and swallow. “Good girl,” he says as if I’m a toddler. “I’ll bring you some breakfast soon,” he says, then puts the glass down and walks out. About thirty minutes later, he comes in with a tray of buttered toast, yogurt, and grapefruit juice. “Thanks, I say when he lays it down across my lap. “I’ll be leaving soon for work, but I’ll come back at noon for your afternoon pill.” I nod and then start eating. I’m starving but thirstier, as I seem to be lately. When he leaves, I eat and read a little but then feel my eyes drooping. I wake up what seems like hours later. I’m alone. It’s now 12:22 PM. Did my nephew come back, see me asleep, put the pill on my nightstand, and leave? I look over but don’t see the pill. I get up and put on my robe and slippers and go downstairs. A cold glass of orange juice sounds good. I open the fridge, grab the juice, and then see more Greek yogurt with the fruit at the bottom. I wonder if there’s more granola, so I peer into the pantry and see some on a shelf.   I set everything down on the table and look out the back. It’s a beautiful August day – perfect for some more reading. After sprinkling granola on the yogurt and pouring the juice, I take everything outside and sit on the lawn chair. The sun is warm, and the slight breeze tickles my skin. Sometime later, I heard the back door slide open. “What are you doing out here?” My nephew sounds like he’s accusing me. “Oh, hi. It’s such a pretty day. I thought I’d sit out here and enjoy it.” I turn around and see him frowning. “You know how the sun can damage your skin. You’ve already had skin cancer.” “I know, but I put on sunscreen,” I lie, “and I won’t stay out long.” He doesn’t know how long I’ve been out here anyway. “Fine, but no more than an hour. I will get your pill.” He closes the sliding door, and I turn back to my book. I hate the meds he gives me, so I pretend to take them, but I keep the capsule in the side of my cheek and spit it out when he’s not looking. I have a baggie I put them in and then tuck them under the mattress. I’ve been doing that for months now. I checked what he was giving me; it was some kind of sedative. It’s like he’s trying to keep me numb and out of it. It feeds into the dementia story, I assume. One time I asked for an MRI to see how far advanced I was, but he refused, saying it was too expensive. Apparently, all he had to tell my doctor was I exhibited the signs and symptoms he read about, and they believed him. But I know I don’t have it. My memory is good, that is, without that damn medication. After he gives me the pill and I pretend to swallow it, he leaves and says he won’t be back until later tonight, but I can order DoorDash for dinner. Oh good, I’m tired of soups and salads. I click on the TV, and the local news is on. I see a reporter standing in front of what looks like Deanna’s house. I turn up the volume and stare at the screen, watching as the police interview her. I then watch the medical examiners pushing a stretcher with a zipped black bag on top, and I know it’s Troy. I suddenly fear that if my nephew is found out and gets arrested, I will be alone, and then they will put me in an assisted living center. I will have to leave my home. And then, I see Deanna, and she looks devastated, and it makes me sick to know she’s being framed, and there’s nothing I can do about it. But I know who can …

PART TWO PART TWO The Messenger The Messenger I’m not asleep; instead, I hear voices downstairs and wonder what’s happening. And then I hear something that made me pay better attention. “Are you sure she’s asleep?” I hear a guy ask. “Yeah, I gave her Melatonin, which she says is the only thing that helps her sleep. She’ll be out for hours,” My nephew says. I hear silence for a few minutes, and then another guy starts talking. At this point, I tiptoe to the door very quietly, so I can hear better. “So, do you have the address?” “Yeah, but we have to be smart about this. We have to case out the house and see when she leaves, and it has to be at night, so we’re not seen,” my nephew says. I hear the words case, night, and not seen, and my mind goes on overdrive. What are they planning? “Okay, you know what you need to get then?” My nephew asks. “Yeah, what’s to get? A shovel, the necklace, and, well, his body,” a woman’s voice chimes in. I clamp my hand over my mouth. Did they kill someone? “Don’t be a smart ass,” my nephew’s tone is harsh. “It’s not going to be as easy as you might think, especially getting into her home. Getting his body won’t be as hard. No one knew anything different since Troy was headed to the cabin to work on some repairs, and Melinda was going to Florida for the week. Good thing arsenic can’t be detected. It was quick, nasty, but quick. Now that he’s dead, we just have to wrap up a few things and then take him.” He acted so nonchalantly, with no feeling.  They kill him, and now they’re going to bury him. Suddenly I can’t breathe well. My heart is racing, and I feel like I’m going to pass out, but I have to hear this. I try breathing deeply. “When do we get the money?” Another male voice asks. “When the guy is buried in her backyard, duh,” the woman says. “Remember, you can’t leave any DNA on her necklace. It must be Deanna’s, and it has to be placed on his chest right before we bury him.,” my nephew says. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I just need to pick up my lock-pick equipment from the shop on the 17th. I will be in and out in a few minutes. We already know she doesn’t have a security system from when I called pretending to be a telemarketer. That was too easy,” she laughs. What has he gotten himself into? I mean, murder? I know he’s been arrested before, but I never thought he was capable of committing murder. I back away and get back into bed. What do I do? If I go to the police, they will know it was me. I can’t take that chance. After I calm down, I mull this plan over. I don’t think they thought this through so well. What did they think would happen when Deanna found her husband’s body, that they would arrest her and immediately charge her as guilty, and it would be over? That’s not how this works, and he should have known that. But taking her necklace and then framing her for his murder is not a half-bad idea. I need to know more, but I can’t be directly involved. However, I know someone who can help. She’s good at this murder mystery stuff. I have to stay anonymous, or it will destroy my family. And as I type this, I realize the person I thought I knew I really didn’t, and that’s hard to square, especially when it’s part of your family. I sent the first message, and yes, it was cryptic, I admit, but I know this woman is smart and will get it. So, now, she knows about asters and their secret. That’s a good start. It’s a good thing these people don’t think there is any way I would say anything. All they know is that I’m mostly deaf and legally blind, but it’s not bad; I just pretend it is. I also pretended as if I was asleep after being given Melatonin, but that stuff never works with me, even though I said it’s the only thing that helps to sleep. They have been murmuring for days now, whispering when they didn’t think I could hear. This is the first time I have heard it all clearly, however. I know more now and when they plan on dumping his body – June 25 after Deanna and her kids went camping. It was a perfect time. When they dig up the plants to bury him, they will shoddily plant the flowers, so one day, she would see that the flowers are dying and dig them up. That’s when she discovers Troy, and with the necklace tied to her, they would arrest Deanna and get away with murder. But how do they know Deanna is going camping? And how long has Troy been dead? And why kill him? None of this makes sense. I need to wait until after they bury Troy, and then I can start giving more clues to Patrice Summers. She could piece together their plan and let the police know. I started watching her on YouTube about four years ago. I’m a gardener too, but she knows so much more than I do, so I follow her channel and get to see her videos. She did some with Troy a few years ago because he was also a gardener and did much of the digging while Trice recorded him, and then they would switch, and she would plant, and he would record. That’s when I discovered his name was Troy Carmicheal, and his wife was Deanna. I also learned from my son, who is a police officer for Grantsville, that she has helped Gray Errington, Chief of Police, on a few cases, even helped solve them, so I knew she would be the one who could figure it out with the clues I would give her. My nephew doesn’t know that Patrice won’t accept that Deanna murdered her ex-husband unless she had proof, and she would do everything to clear her friend. I have to be careful I don’t give myself away. I hear them leave and can breathe freely again. I put on my bifocals and look outside my window just as they drive away. I think about what might have led my nephew to do something like this. He’s had a rough childhood. His mom left his father, him, and two younger siblings, his brother and little sister. After that, his father was never the same. He started drinking and would come home drunk most of the time and beat him. They never touched the younger ones, just him. I took him in when he was 16 and got custody. After that, my brother never saw my nephew again. It’s been over 15 years now. I tried to get him therapy and set him straight, but he wouldn’t listen to me. He flunked out of high school and started selling drugs. I tried to warn him that I wouldn’t tolerate his drug dealing, but he spun a tale to the police about how I had dementia and was a danger to myself and others. Instead of it being my home, he took over and used it for his drug dealing. I was “permitted” to stay as long as I shut my mouth. He threatened to kill me and then go after anyone I loved. I have five grandchildren and three great-grandchildren, so you can see how I did what I was told. Now, I have this huge secret, and the only one I can tell is Patrice, and it has to be in riddles, and she can’t know it’s me – ever. ________________________________________________________________ I don’t hear anything until the night before when the group is together again. I feign being asleep when my nephew shuts my door. I wait until he’s back downstairs, and then I creep out of bed and to the door, listening again. “Troy should have been getting back from the cabin tomorrow, and since I have his phone, I will text Melinda and tell her “I’m” on my way home around 7:00 p.m. It’s about 3 hours from Grantsville. She won’t suspect anything for at least a few hours after that, which gives us plenty of time to bury him,” My nephew says. “I wish I could see her face. She deserved this, and so did he,” my nephew spews out. I could hear the venom in his voice. What happened to have him hate this person so badly, and Melinda? And then it hits me. She must have been having an affair with Troy. This is what happened when his mother left. She was also having an affair and left to be with the man, abandoning him. It all makes sense now. He’s out for revenge. “Okay, Ely and Colton, tomorrow night you will dig the grave at 11:00 p.m. Petra and Greg will get Troy’s body from the cabin at 8:15, so when they arrive, the grave will be ready. You guys dump his body while Petra grabs the necklace. She places it on his chest, and you all bury him. That’s it. Now, if everything goes as planned, Deanna will find his body and get taken in for questioning. The necklace will have her DNA on it, so it will look like she killed him, just like we planned. After all, Deanna had the means, motive, and opportunity - his affair.” My nephew had it all thought out as if he had been planning this for months. And who knows, maybe he has been. All I can do is watch it play out.

I pace back and forth in Gray’s office, waiting for him to return. It’s been almost 20 minutes, and my anxiety is through the roof. After learning everything I know now, it’s mighty suspicious that Jeff’s last post was to his ex – at least, that’s what I believe. It just seems very strange that the post was published on June 22nd.  I mentally calculate 56 days to when Troy was found. It was last Wednesday, August 15th, and we now know the body had been deceased for nearly two months. This man could have very well killed Troy. I have no evidence, just speculation. The best I can do is give this info to Gray and let him investigate it. About 15 minutes later, I see Gray stroll into the police station, and I rush out of his office. “Gray, you’re finally here.” “Hey, Trice. Hold on.” He talks to one of the police officers and then pats him on the shoulder. “Okay, I’m all yours,” he says as he walks to his office with me on his heels. He shuts the door and tells me to sit. “Okay, what’s up.” I tell him everything I learned, feeling like I’m talking a thousand miles a minute or I’m on Speed. “Hold on, back up, and slow down.” Yeah, he notices it, so I slow down and go through the timeline, ensuring he knows everything – well, except for the messenger. After I’m done, he sits there with his arms behind his back, looking up at the ceiling. I flashback to when my kids were young, and I would read  and Junie never could understand what people were seeing when they looked up (rolled their eyes). “Wow, Trice, you did more than my investigators and in such a short time. It does sound very plausible, but we need concrete evidence, and the only thing we have is that necklace.” I sit back and blow out a deep breath. “I know, but it’s a lead. The fact that he posts that on his Facebook page around the same time Troy dies has to mean something, right?” “Maybe, but it could be anything. We don’t even know if he knew about the affair.” He’s right; we don’t. “How is Deanna?” “She’s scared, but Brock is doing what he can to help. We’ve searched the house, and nothing else looks out of the ordinary. The killer could have broken into the house and stolen the necklace to put on Troy’s chest to frame her like you said. Deanna did have an alibi around the same time Troy would have died, but we have no idea when he was dumped in her yard. He could have been killed 56 days ago but not dumped for days or weeks after. It’s hard to pinpoint what someone did with that range of days. Maybe you can track down what her days were like back then.” Gray picks up the phone. “Hey, I have a visitor for Deanna Carmichael.” Oh, he wants me to go down to the jail now. “Okay, thanks,” he says, then puts the phone down. “Okay, you have permission to visit her. Her court date is tomorrow, so anything you can get out of her will help the judge decide whether she’s granted bail.” “Okay, I’ll do what I can.” “Thanks, Trice. You may be the only one who can help her.” Well, that’s a lot of pressure. I say goodbye and take off to visit the Tooele County Jail. The last time I visited a jail was when my uncle was there, my dad’s brother. He was arrested for petty theft and threatening someone with a deadly weapon. He had a knife and threatened a convenience store clerk to “slash” him if he didn’t give him some smokes and alcohol. He took off and got himself drunk. On the way home, he was pulled over after drifting in and out of the lane and then arrested. He was in jail for 90 days. I was 21 at the time. I was close to him as a teen but saw him spiraling after his wife divorced him and took their two kids. And the ironic thing is that my father was killed by a drunk driver when he was only 30 years old, and I was 7. My younger brother, Nathan, was only 4. It devastated my mother, who got remarried but not for ten years. They now live in Sunny, Florida, in a senior community. She will turn 80 in a few months. Her husband, Rob, will be 82 a month after her birthday. They are enjoying life, and it’s been nearly two years since she visited. I wanted to go but have had to watch the monsters for the last 18 months. I pull up to the gate and announce my name. After I am cleared to go, they open the gate and let me through. The jail isn’t nearly as big as the one in Salt Lake City, and as I pull into visitor’s parking, I see a guard tower and hear noises coming from the jail yard. It must be outside time. I learned from Uncle Nathan that you were allowed outside in the yard for one hour daily to get exercise and sun. Before I go in, I see two large off-white ceramic pots with flowers on each side of the door. The colorful red, white, and blue plants were probably planted for the Fourth of July, America’s birthday. I identify the red geraniums in the back, white diamond euphorbia in the middle, and blue lobelia hanging down in the front and to the sides, making for a vivid display.   When I go inside, I’m patted down and have to empty my pockets; then they search my purse. When I go through the metal detector and am cleared, the clerk takes me to a meeting area, where tables and chairs are spread across, allowing visitors to speak with inmates. I also learned that you can do video calls now instead of what there were in the past - phones you had to dial and everything. I sit down at a table and wait for her to come out. I’m tapping my foot and then abruptly push down on my knee to prevent me from doing it. She needs to see me calm, not nervous. I see her come out in an orange jumpsuit, and she looks … well, beaten down. Her hair doesn’t look like it's been washed for at least a week, her blonde highlights have faded, and her dark brown roots are coming through. Her cheeks are pasty white, and her eyes look lost. I try to maintain my composure, but I really want to hug her and cry. She comes and sits down, her wrists cuffed. “Hey, Dee. How are you?” “Well, I’m in jail; that’s how I am.” I can’t blame her for saying that. “I would be scared and feeling confused, as I can tell she is right now. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could clap my hands or wiggle my nose like Samantha on Bewitched and change the scene. Are you at least being treated OK?” “Yeah, word got around that I “offed” my husband for having an affair, and most of the women think I’m a hero, but I’m telling you, Trice, I didn’t do it. I swear.” I believe her. “I don’t think you did either, but that necklace …” “Someone took it from my jewelry box because I haven’t worn it since we divorced. Troy gave me a simple heart locket on our tenth wedding anniversary. That was right before his affair.” Her voice starts to tremble, and I know I don’t have much time, so I need to get straight to the point. “Dee, look, I know you’ve been through this with the police, but if you can remember anything else from around June 15 to the 24th, that could explain your whereabouts. If we can pinpoint an alibi, it would help Gray.” I pray she remembers something, anything. She looks like she’s thinking hard, but I can tell she’s just tired. “I just don’t know,” she says, shaking her head. “Okay, let’s see if I can help. Did you go out of town or state during that time?” “No, well … hold on.” I lean forward. “I did take the kids camping for the weekend, but it was just Saturday and Sunday, and I think it was sometime around then.” Her eyes widen, and she leans forward. I watch the guard eyeing her. “We did go camping the weekend of June 18 because I remember promising Tanner we would do it for this birthday, which was the week before.” The excitement in her voice shows hope. “This is good. Maybe the killer watched the house, waited until you left, broke in, stole the necklace either Saturday or Sunday night, dumped Troy, placed the necklace on his chest, and then covered him up. They tried to replant the Asters, but what they didn’t know is that if you dig up plants before they are done blooming, they will go through transplant shock, and depending on how hot it is and how much water it gets determines if they come out of it and survive. When did you notice the asters were dying?” “Well, I didn’t really notice until a few weeks ago. I just thought because of the heat and the last few storms that, they were damaged. They started drooping and then falling over and weren’t even flowering anymore, so I figured I would dig them up and maybe put something else in or wait until fall and replace them since they did look nice there.” This is great news; it means she may have an alibi for the time Troy was dumped in her yard. “This is great, Dee,” but why didn’t you tell the police and better yet, Brock about this?” She placed her hand on her forehead. “I must have just spaced it. It was a few months ago, and with all the summer activities, I just didn’t think much of it.” “Okay, well, you need to tell Brock this, and I will tell Gray. Someone is trying to frame you, and we’re going to prove it,” I say with conviction in my voice. Of course, I don’t know that 100%, but I really don’t believe Deanna killed Troy, and if I can help prove it, I will do what I can. “Do you really believe so?” I nod. The change in her from when she walked out to now was palpable. She has hope now. “Oh, thank you so much, Trice. I’ll never forget this.” At this time, the guard said her time was up, but I got what I came for, an alibi that could clear her once and for all. I leave the jail with a little spring in my step. As I round the corner to my street, I get a buzz from my phone. I pick it up, and the screaming message makes me slam on my breaks. I KNOW WHO DID IT!

The following day, I open my eyes and feel like someone has taken a hammer to my head. A migraine, one of several I get every month, has taken up residence, and they’re always brought on by insufficient sleep. This is why I go to bed by 10:30 and up by no later than 6:30, so I can get a solid 8 hours of sleep. My side of the bed is still empty. Brock must have slept on the couch the whole night. I put on a robe and walk down the stairs to find him still there. It’s a little past 7:00, so I quietly walk into the kitchen, start the coffee pot, and take two Excedrin from the cupboard. I hate the meds, but they’re the only thing that helps my migraines. Couple that with the caffeine from the coffee and it usually knocks it out after an hour or so. This is a doozy, though, so who knows? If they’re bad, I need an ice pack on my forehead and no lights or any stimulation. Thankfully, I don’t have any meetings today, so I can rest somewhat as the meds take effect. I need some food, even though I'm nauseous, so I get the cereal out of the pantry and milk out of the fridge. I want to close the blinds and just sit in the dark too. Maybe I’ll go back to bed and do just that. A few hours later, I can feel the meds kick in as I open up my eyes, realizing that after I ate, I laid down and crashed. The time is nearly 9:00, but I didn’t hear Brock come up, so I wonder if he’s still asleep. If he is, he’s late to court. I rush down the stairs, and he’s still asleep. “Brock.” No answer. “Brock,” I say louder and nudge him with my hand. He groggily wakes up and stares at me. I still have the ice pack on my head. “Yes, had a migraine earlier, but you’re late for court.” Brock looks down at his watch, and his eyes grow big. “Oh damn. I was supposed to be there at 8:30. Where’s my phone,” he gets up, searching for it. He throws open his briefcase, and it’s sitting on top of his papers. He picks it up and then mumbles, “Great, it’s dead; no wonder I didn’t get up.” “Sorry, I would have woken you, but I took my meds and then fell back asleep.” Wait, it’s not my fault he missed the alarm. His phone was dead. “I’ll have to charge it in the car.” He runs up the stairs, and five minutes later, he’s back down again in a new shirt, slacks, and tie, his hair combed. “I can’t believe you can get ready that quickly,” I say, shaking my head. “See you,” he says and then kisses me. “Have a good day,” I wave him off. Now that my headache is just a dull throb, I puff up the pillows on the couch, lay back, and flip open the laptop to start my search. Okay, Troy had to have had social media, so the first place I check is Facebook. Sorry, but I refuse to call it Meta. And why is there Threads now? It makes no sense. No matter; I’m only on Facebook and Instagram to see the grandkids. I put in his name and search through all the Troy Carmichaels. There’s a bunch of them, and then I see his photo and click on it. His last post was in August 2022, a year ago, and it’s pinned. It reads:  There’s a photo of them kissing at sunset on a cliff, it looks like. She’s pretty, medium height, with long, flaming red hair, and wears, I think, a bikini or tankini, can't really tell. She looks to be about 30 if that. Troy has short, sandy-curled brown hair and wears Bermuda shorts and a black t-shirt. They look like a striking couple. I see the ocean behind them. There were five comments, and hers is the first one. It says:  He took her to Hawaii, the bastard. He had promised to take Deanna on their 20th anniversary, which would have been in five years. I scroll down and see memorial tributes, and then see one that reads: That last sentence … was that a threat? I screenshot the page to give to Gray. I click on her photo; Melinda Patterson is her name. There’s not much on her, except her birthday is September 14, 1995, so 28 years old. Her last post was also in August 2022, with a similar photo of her and Troy in Hawaii, with the post:   It’s almost sickeningly sweet but also odd. She didn’t delete her Facebook, but nothing for a year? I click on her friends, and a name–Jeff Patterson–pops out. I immediately click on his photo and wonder if it’s a brother, in-law, or maybe an uncle. I scroll down his feed. There are a few photos from six months ago, but then on June 22nd, 2023, a post with the words:   That was it. A chill runs up my spine. What does that mean? There were no comments or likes, but nothing after that. OMG, the same month Troy died. Did Jeff kill him? I mean, it would seem strange and even stupid to put up a post like that. Maybe he posted this as a warning to her. I have to know more about him, so I open another tab and search for his name. I scroll down and see a LinkedIn post with his name, so I click on it. I find his profile and see that he’s a civil engineer, and his hobbies are mountain biking, hiking, snowboarding, and horticulture, the study of plants. What??  This cannot be a coincidence that Troy is first poisoned with a natural substance, then his body is scarred from a plant, and this guy’s hobby is  . My phone buzzes, and I almost jump off the couch. I search for it and realize it’s right under my hip. I grab it. IF YOU WANT THE KEY TO FINDING THE KILLER YOU’RE LOOKING IN THE WRONG PLACE How does this person always know what I’m doing? Did they bug my home and car or my laptop? Was the person I saw last week in the backyard able to get inside my home and plant a bug? How else do they know everything? WHERE ARE YOU? Silence PLEASE, YOU’RE SCARING ME. YOU KNOW EVERYTHING I’M DOING I wait … I CAN’T TELL YOU WHERE I AM - I JUST KNOW YOU AND THIS IS WHAT YOU DO This person  me? I wrack my brain on who it could be, family, friends, someone in the neighborhood, on the street? Still, how do they know I’m looking for Troy’s mistress? Wait, if they have Facebook and they’re friends with me, they would see I’m active right now. I rarely go on there, so it makes sense that if they saw me on there, I could very well be looking for Melinda. Now, I know they’re not the killer; they are trying to help me, but they know things I would never know, so it begs the question, do  know the killer?

A young, pretty strawberry blonde woman sits on one of our barstools. She whips around and smiles. She’s wearing a red pencil skirt and black sheer blouse that plunges down her chest, and if I look hard enough, I’m sure I could see her bra peek-a-booing. Her emerald, green eyes are gorgeous, with smoky gray eyeliner matching the bottom of her eyelids and a light pink highlighting the top. Her lipstick has just a hint of red that makes her lips pop. “Um, hello?” I say, trying to be courteous but then a little firm. She turns around with a huge grin. “Oh, hi, you must be Patrice.” “I must,” I say, coming over to the pantry and grabbing a can of dog food. Hercules isn’t barking at her at all, but then, she’s been here longer than I have, and he might have when she walked through the door. “I’m just waiting for Brock. He forgot to get some papers for court today and ran out of gas on his way home. And since the courtroom wasn’t too far, I came and picked him up so he could get a can of gas and take it back to his car.” He could have texted me, but then I was about 20 minutes away. “I see. And your name?” She touches her forehead briefly with her middle finger and says, “Oh yes, sorry. I’m April.” She kind of looks like one, with her long hair, white skin, and bubbly personality. Every April I know or knew acted this way and looked this gorgeous too. “I’m Brock’s paralegal and have been helping him on this case. He’s worked really hard, and I’m sure wants it over. You can tell.” I find it amusing that she’s telling me how my husband feels. “Yes, he has, he works nearly all night, so I rarely see him. He probably sees you more than he sees me,” I joke, well, sort of. She giggles a little. “Yeah … “ “Hey, you’re home.” I whip around and see Brock with some papers in his hand. He comes over and kisses me on the cheek. He runs his fingers through his hair and gets out a glass, offering one to April, which she politely declines, but not me. “Ran out of gas, so April was kind enough to come get me, so I didn’t have to bother you. I got to get the gas can out of the shed. Be back.” And it’s just April and I again. “So,” I ask, “Are you dating or married?”  She smiles and shakes her head. “No, men are scum.” Well, okay … “I mean, I hang with some of them, but not in a relationship. Done with that.” What is she, 25, and she’s already done with men? What is it with this generation? When I was her age, you found a guy, dated him, and then got married. A few years later, you popped out a kid, and viola, you had a family. Now, no one wants to get married, let alone have kids. We sit silently until Brock comes back in with a gasoline can. “Okay, we gotta get back. See you later tonight; not sure when. See ya,” he says, with April following him out the door. I know what thoughts are invading me, and I must tell my brain to shut up. We’ve been married for 32 years. No, he’s not having an affair. April was nice enough to give him a ride back home to grab his court papers and a can of gas, that’s it. I refuse to get jealous over this. After they leave, I head back out and start planting. It takes me an hour, but all the pots are planted, and I look back and am satisfied. My phone rings. It's Gray, and I pick up. “Hey, Gray,” I say, sitting down to rest. “Hi, Trice, got your voicemail. Thanks for your help.” He stops, and I can tell he’s going to say something I don’t want to hear. “Hate to say this, but we just got a warrant to arrest Deanna and search through her house.” I'm kind of taken aback, but then not really. “Wow, I thought she was cleared.” “Well, the thing is, we found a necklace at the scene. It was lying on top of the body, and we figured it was dropped on purpose, but Deanna’s DNA was on it when we tested it.” Wait, what? “How? Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” I grip the phone tighter. “Not necessarily, but we had to arrest her. It’s evidence we can’t deny.” I’m reeling. Deanna killed her husband? It just can’t be. I then tell him what I suspect when I found more information about Bloodroot. “Is it possible that someone killed him, laid him down in the bloodroot or rolled him around in it to disfigure him, tossed him in their trunk, drove down here, and then dumped his body into Deanna’s yard and somehow planted that necklace there to frame her? I mean, maybe they snuck in and found one of her necklaces and planted it on Troy before covering him up.” I could tell Gray was contemplating that possibility. “Could be, but we have no way of knowing, so we must follow protocol. Since it’s hard to pinpoint a date of when Troy was killed, except that it was in the middle of June, we need to question her on an alibi for that period.” “Yeah, I know. I’m just sure she didn’t do it, Gray.” I look over the fence to Deanna’s backyard that once was filled with kids playing and laughing, and even fighting, and feel so bad for her and the kids. “Well, we have to rule her out then, and this is the only way.” “She needs a good lawyer, Gray, and I know just the person.” “Well, then you’d better call him now.” I get off the phone but forget that Brock is in court right now. Shoot, she needs a lawyer. I text him anyway, hoping he will get it when he’s out. DEANNA ARRESTED, NEEDS A LAWYER, NOW Short but to the point, and I hope he can take her case. I haven’t heard from the messenger and wonder if something’s wrong. Now that there’s a search warrant, there’s no way I can get over there to look for the ring. But it may be the only thing that clears her name. I wait impatiently for Brock to get home. I check my watch, and it’s nearly 8:00. He can’t be still in court; where is he? I made dinner around 7:00, thinking he would have come home by now. I cover everything up and put it in the fridge, and then I hear the garage door. It’s about time. Brock comes in looking drained. His tie has been loosened, and that means he’s exhausted. “Hi, did you get my –“ “Yes, and that is why I just got home. I got out of court at 6:00 and headed straight to the police station.” I want to kiss him right now. “Oh, Brock, thank you!” I come over and wrap my arms around him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to bother you, it’s just …” “I know, it’s your friend, and she’s in trouble. I have to say it’s not looking too good for her right now.” He opens the fridge and pulls out dinner and a can of Coors. It’s going to be that kind of night. “That necklace is pretty damning,” he says, then sits on the couch. I come over and sit next to him. “But what if it was planted to make it look like she killed him?” I then tell him everything Gray and I talked about, but he looks stony-faced. “I mean, it’s more plausible than her poisoning him with arsenic, dumping his body in her front yard, and then placing a necklace there.” “The necklace could have also fallen off while she was rolling or pushing him in or burying him,” He sighs. “But it was placed on his chest. Why would she do that?  It doesn’t make sense since it would have her DNA on it and implicate her as the killer.” I could tell Brock wanted the conversation over as he picked up the remote. “I don’t know, Trice. Can we just have a calm night without talking about murder, investigation, being a lawyer, or Deanna, just for one night?” I have been obsessed with her case, and he can tell. “Yeah, sorry.” He turns on the TV, and I cozy up next to him while we watch some mind-numbing movie on Hulu. Later, I feel the familiar buzz of my phone and look over, and Brock is sound asleep. I get up and go upstairs. It’s Leah’s text message. DEANNA’S BEEN ARRESTED! I KNOW. I’LL CALL YOU. I text back. It’s almost 10:00 when I call. “Hey, so what is going on?” She almost shrieks in my ear. “They arrested Deanna because they found a necklace on Troy's chest, and when they did a DNA analysis, it matched Deanna. “Oh my gosh. Does that mean –“ “No,” I clap back. “It just means that somehow the killer got her necklace, which could have happened at any time, and put it there to frame her. Brock was with her at the police station for nearly two hours tonight. He said it looks bad, but I can’t believe she killed Troy. It doesn’t add up. First, she’s not that strong to lift him; second, why would she dump him in the front yard? Third, where would she find arsenic and fourth, where would she have gone that had Bloodroot … “ and then I realize she doesn’t know about that. “Bloodroot? You mean the plant?” “Yeah, they found lesions on his body and did a skin test, and it came back conclusive for Bloodroot, which is toxic and can be deadly in large amounts. Someone either dragged his body through it or used it to torture him, which can cause major disfiguration.” “Oh, poor Troy.” Leah sounds as if she’s going to cry. “Anyway, nothing adds up to her killing him,” I say. “The killer could have broken into Deanna’s house, grabbed one of her necklaces, and placed it on his chest before burying him. That makes more sense.” “Yeah, much more. Poor Deanna and those kids!” “I know, it’s awful.” “Wait,” she hesitates and then says, “How did you know they did a skin test?” Shoot, I was supposed to keep it between Gray and I. “I talked to Gray, but you can’t breathe a word of this to anyone, not even Trevor.” “Of course not! I’m not talking to Trevor right now much as it is.” Her voice breaks. “Uh oh, Lee, what’s going on?” “Well, we just don’t have anything in common anymore. When the kids were here, we had a purpose and a partnership, but we rarely see each other lately. He works ten hours a day at the stupid plant, and then on the weekends, he’s golfing with his buddies. I just don’t know if we even have a relationship anymore.” She sounds so dejected, but some of what she said rings true for Brock and I. Is this what happens when the birds leave the nest? I remember when our boys hung out together, and we would take them places, and when the men were done with their workday, Brock at the firm and Trevor at the Power Plant, we would barbeque or go swimming. Now, it’s like we all lead separate lives. “Oh, Lee, I understand. I sometimes feel the same way, but Trev loves you and is maybe just going through a rough time. Have you talked to him?” She hesitates. “Well, no.” “See, that’s the problem. Talk to him. Maybe he’s just waiting for you to come to him.” “Yeah, true. Okay, it can’t hurt.” I need to practice what I preach myself, but I’m afraid if I try and talk to Brock, he’ll bite my head off. I get off the phone and realize it’s past 10:30, so I do my nightly routine and climb into bed, but I can’t shut off my brain. All I keep thinking about is who would take Deanna’s necklace and put it with her dead husband to frame her. Unless … time to find out who Troy’s mistress was.

I’m ten minutes from McDonald’s when a police siren blares it’s lights behind me. I stare at my speedometer and notice I’m not speeding. Oh great, what then? I pull over to the side, get my license and registration, and wait. A tall, thin policewoman instructs me to roll down my window, so I comply. “Hello, officer, I wasn’t speeding,” I immediately spill the words. “Yes, I know, but did you know both of your taillights are broken?" She starts writing in her notepad. "Did you get into an accident?” "What? No!" I am stunned. I've never been in a car accident before. Did Brock do this? I don't even remember the last time he drove my truck. "Ordinarily, I wouldn't ticket you for just one light out, but two can cause an accident, especially at night. You need to get that fixed asap." She rips off the paper and hands it to me. I gasp when I see the ticket is for $200. "Okay, sorry, ma'am, I didn't know," I say, covering my eyes and shaking my head. My body feels on high alert, and my body now starts to shake. What is happening? "Ma'am, are you OK?" I want to shout that I'm not and spill the whole story, but I know I can't. Who could have done this to my truck, and when or where? "Yes, I'm just shocked. I've never been in an accident and can't understand how I have two busted taillights." She looks me over, purses her lips, then says, “If you promise to go get that fixed right now, I'll let you go with a warning.” Oh, thank God! I didn't know how I was going to explain this to Brock. “Yes, I promise. Thank you, officer,” and I squint to see her badge. “Thompson.” I didn’t even need to give her my license and registration. I guess she figured, what trouble can a senior citizen get into? “Okay. Have a good day now.” I nod and roll up my window. Great, I now need to go and get these stupid taillights replaced. And I got to ask Brock if he took my truck in the last week. I ask Siri for directions to a car repair shop near me and find one in West Valley, just a few minutes from McDonald’s. I’m still starving, so I drive through, grab a big breakfast, sit in the car, and eat it while looking up more info on Bloodroot and its effects on the skin. Along with causing lesions on the skin, it can also cause burning in the mouth and throat, but Gray didn’t mention that. I see an image of a Bloodroot, and the white flowers are delicate with a mustard yellow center. It’s a pretty plant; if anyone didn’t know better, they would think it was completely harmless. But why did they choose this particular plant, or maybe they didn’t; it chose them. Wherever Troy was killed, Bloodroot was growing. But that could have been anywhere from Maine to Florida- good grief, that’s several states. I keep reading. Troy was killed in Spring, so it answers the question of why the plant was able to affect him. I also read that it’s found in woodlands. But, if it’s that short, how did it come in contact with his skin? Was he poisoned with the arsenic, dropped in a field of them, put in a car trunk, driven way down here, and then buried in Deanna’s yard? If so, it doesn’t make sense to try and find Bloodroot here if he wasn’t killed here. And whoever did this wanted to send a message. But what and why frame Deanna? I doubt she had any enemies. Still, I’ve got to find that ring. It’s our only lead right now. I’ve been sitting long enough. Time to get these stupid taillights fixed. ___________________________________________ Two hours later, I’m still sitting at the repair shop. They were able to get me in, but I had to wait for two other cars ahead of me. Maybe this is a good time to tell Gray what I discovered and to call off trying to find Bloodroot in Utah. No one else is in the waiting room, so I have some privacy. The last thing I need is prying eyes or ears to hear about murder investigation talk. I call and wait for him to pick up. “Chief Gray here, leave a message.” That was it, plain and simple. I leave a brief message and then sit and wait for my car to be finished. When I think I can’t stand to sit here one more minute, the mechanic comes in with a paper and pen for me to sign. “Okay, all done.” He looks to be no older than my youngest but with stark blonde hair and dark brown ends, which I find odd on a guy. He’s about 6 feet tall and wearing overalls, and has some beads of sweat pooling on his forehead. I take the invoice, sign it, then hand him my card for him to charge. I look at the bottom where it has the total and about die. It was $500 to fix? I shake my head and figure it wouldn’t do any good to complain about it. I get back on the road and see that it’s already 2:00. Maybe on my way home, I’ll pick up some fall plants to replace the haggard ones in my pots. I had my eye on some mums and ornamental cabbage and kale, and maybe even get some pansies; on second thought, it’s still too hot for them. I will have to wait until fall for those. There’s a local nursery that I probably spend just as much time and money at as I do at Walmart for groceries. I like that they know about plants instead of the Lowe’s and Home Depot that when you ask them a question, they shrug and say, “Don’t know.” I think knowing something about plants should be required if you work in a nursery. I pull up in front of Mountain Lands Nursery. I always get a little giddy when I go buy plants. I love arranging them in pots and seeing them grow in the following weeks. Since it’s still late summer, there aren't many people here. Fall planting hasn’t really begun yet when it will pick back up again. Temps will start dropping in the next month, so they usually do well if I keep my pots in a protected area, away from the sun. I pick up some ornamental cabbage and kale that look bluish gray with a dark pink center to go in front of the pots, with purple mums in the center and yellow snapdragons in the back. I may tuck some white sweet alyssum into the sides for a cascading effect.  Since I have five pots, it will take me some time to fill them. Pulling into the driveway, I notice a car I’ve never seen before parked on the street. It’s a white Lexus crossover with tinted windows and looks to be one of the newer versions that is probably seventy grand or more. It’s parked along our curb, but is the person visiting next door, or are they at my home? I open the garage and drive in. I get out and start grabbing plants. My black Ford F-150 needs cleaning badly, as I notice a film on the windows and dust caked on the exterior and especially by the rims. I'm a truck gal since I can put down the guardrail, load plants, mulch, hell, anything, and also load three kids in the back seat. I took them to the fair in Salt Lake City, and the only parking places available were in the dirt, so afterward, it looked like we’d gone digging (what we use to call it) or off-roading as it’s called today. I take the plants around to the backyard, and Hercules bounds through the doggy door. He barks at me as if he is scolding me because I left – without him. “Hey, Herc, hold on, let me put these plants down.” I set them down and then crouch down and scratch his ears. “You been a good boy?” He knows what that means. I punch in the keycode to get inside the back door to the kitchen and stop and stare. Who’s in my house?

Ten minutes later, I pull up in front of the Grantsville Police Department. My hands are sweaty, and my pulse quickens. I don’t know why I’m so nervous; it’s not like I’m being questioned. I walk in and announce my name and wait. The place is dead, but that’s a good thing. Not too much happens in Grantsville. A few police officers are at their desks on computers as I tap my foot on the hardwood floor. To the right is a portrait of a smiling Gray in his uniform and his badge that reads “Chief of Police.” I know he’s proud of that photo, as his dream was always to be Chief. But it almost didn’t happen after his car accident the year before he entered the police academy. It was a hit-and-run and if he hadn’t been wearing his seatbelt, the impact would have thrown him through the windshield. The car was going 50 mph when it ran a red light and slammed into Gray. He broke his collarbone, had whiplash and a concussion, and broke his wrist. But he survived. A few minutes later, Gray comes to the front and ushers me to his office. I sit down across from him and watch as he furrows his brow and appears to be looking at some papers. “I asked you down here because Troy’s autopsy revealed something only a gardener would know, and well, since you’re the only experienced one, I thought you could help.” “Okay … “ I say, waiting in anticipation. “We know the cause of death was arsenic poisoning; however, the medical examiner noticed he had lesions all over his body, including his face and mouth, and decided to conduct further testing. That’s when the results came up as Bloodroot.” “Bloodroot? That’s kind of odd. I know that it can cause skin scarring if you encounter it. But it isn’t native here, only Canada and the Eastern U.S.” I’m trying to understand where he’s going with this. “But Troy could have gone where it is native and got scarred before he died.” “Yes, but if it’s not native here and yet, his body was dumped here, he has to have died in the Eastern US or Canada and then brought here, which is pretty much impossible with border security, unless ...” he looks in deep thought. “The killer kidnapped him from the Eastern US, had the Bloodroot already in his possession, and then poisoned him here and dumped the body.” I understand now. “So, wherever Troy was, he came in contact with Bloodroot,” I say. “Yeah. It just seems strange that he was poisoned with arsenic, but then he’s also scarred with Bloodroot.”   It did seem odd.  The wheels start spinning in my head. “So, why did the killer go through all the trouble of taking him over the border or from somewhere in the Eastern US, poisoning him, scarring him, and then dropping his body at his ex-wife’s house?” “There’s only one plausible explanation I can think of,” Gray says, and then I think the same thing, as I thought about it for days now. “The killer wanted to frame Deanna,” I say, and he nods. He puts his hand to his mouth and sighs. “Why would someone want to frame her?” “That, Gray, is the million-dollar question.” And then, another disturbing thought entered my mind. “Maybe they used Bloodroot not just to scar him but to disfigure him, making it difficult to ID him.” “I mean, that makes sense. He was already quite bloated and starting to decompose. The Bloodroot just helped it along,” Gray said, and I had to agree with him. “But, we can always identify bodies with dental records, too.” Gray opens his bottom drawer and pulls out a pad of sticky notes. “Can you help me with something?” “Sure.” He rips one off and grabs a pen. “Can you check around and see if any nurseries or big box stores, like Lowe’s or Home Depot, got a shipment in for Bloodroot and then let me know? I can get video footage or receipt records if we can trace it to a local place. Also, check online to see if you can purchase Bloodroot. I think they had to have purchased it here and then had it shipped, which could be from anywhere. I don’t think they would have risked killing him in Canada and then driving over the border. Border Patrol would have possibly checked the car, found the plant, and even Troy.” He scribbles his cell number on one of the papers and thrusts it to me. “Yeah, of course.” I would have to go outside of Grantsville and probably hit all of Tooele County, which Grantsville is part of, and maybe even Salt Lake City. “Thanks, and Trice, let’s keep this between us. I don’t want it to get out and have the press swarming around.” “Yeah, I understand.” It’s an ongoing investigation; no one will know anything until investigators have concrete evidence. I get up and tell him I’ll keep him posted, and he nods and waves me off, returning to his paperwork. As I head out to my car, I notice a black, older Silverado slowly go past the police station. I can’t see because of the tinted windows, but suddenly I feel a prickly sensation on the back of my neck as if someone was lightly blowing on it, and I shiver. ______________________________________________ I drive home, keeping my eyes peeled for anyone following me. When I enter my street, no one is behind, and I can finally take a deep breath. I push the remote to open the garage door, drive in, then close it behind me. I turn off the car and sit, trying to reduce the anxiety pumping through my body. I don’t know what to text back, but I’m getting tired of these games. I DON’T WHERE YOU LIVE OR WHY YOU’RE FOLLOWING ME, BUT UNLESS YOU REVEAL YOURSELF, I WILL GO TO THE POLICE AND TELL THEM EVERYTHING I wait, seeing the dots on the screen, and I know they’re responding. WHAT? I'M NOT FOLLOWING YOU - I HAVE NO CAR. I’M SORRY, I CAN’T REVEAL MY IDENTITY, OR IT COULD GET ME AND MY FAMILY KILLED. BUT YOU DON’T NEED TO FEAR ME. I’M ONLY HERE TO HELP. Somehow, I believe them, and I calm down, now very curious as to who this is and what they know, and more importantly, if it wasn't them in the car watching me at the police station, then who was it? My heart nearly stops when I think about the figure I saw in my backyard. Does this person know that I know something and is following me? And, If the messenger is that scared for their family, they must know more than they're letting on. I have to be very careful not to reveal anything about them, which means not even telling my best friend. They have reasons for staying anonymous, and I will continue to listen as long as I’m not in danger. OK, I WON’T. WHOEVER YOU ARE, IF YOU HAVE ANY MORE INFORMATION TO SHARE, PLEASE LET ME KNOW. I HAVEN’T BEEN ABLE TO FIND THE RING BUT I WAS GOING TO GO BACK OUT TONIGHT TO CHECK. I wait for another message as I go inside the house. Hercules is wagging his tail and I bend down and scratch his head. “Hey, Herc.” My phone buzzes again. BE CAREFUL THE HOUSE IS BEING WATCHED I remember Detective Sanchez and that she’s been watching to see if the killer returns to the scene, so I don’t know how I will get over there without her seeing me. It’s just me and Hercules since I still haven’t heard from Brock and figure he’s in court. I grab my laptop, toss it on the couch, and then head to the kitchen, realizing I’m starving. There’s leftover chicken from our barbecue last Friday, so I take it out, along with some cut-up fruit and lemonade. After heating the chicken, I take everything into the living room. Herc stays in the kitchen, whining, and I remember he hasn’t had any food today, so I go back into the kitchen and open up a can of dog food, plop it in his bowl, and fill his water bowl. There - time to do some research. I open my laptop and smile for facial recognition.  However, before I search, I want to check out my YouTube channel to see if this person possibly left me any clues. I open up my latest video on preparing for fall planting and scroll down. I did it a few days before the discovery of Troy and see there are 650,000 views and over 2,000 comments. I sometimes respond to comments, but only the top 20 or so, or I would be on my laptop all day. I post weekly videos, sometimes more or less, depending on time constraints. Scrolling down, I see comments about my backyard garden, where I show my fall plants starting to come up. Mums will usually bloom in early September, sometimes sooner, especially if they're in the nursery. Master gardeners usually get them to bloom earlier, in late July or early August, so they can be sold as they're blooming. It's an excellent marketing tactic, but when they return the following year in your landscape or pot, they typically won't bloom until the end of August or early September. As I scroll down, looking for any clues or odd comments, I turn on the TV. I'm the ultimate multi-tasker. I can watch TV, surf the web on my phone, eat lunch or dinner, and think about my next video. Brock thinks I'm nuts, but then he's not a mother. When the boys were younger, I had to remember their school events, gardening classes, and grocery items. (wrote them down since there was no internet back then) While cooking, I would talk to a teacher on the phone and watch the monsters to ensure they didn't destroy the house or kill each other. Borck said he has to compartmentalize, putting things in each box so he can think straight. I just laugh at him. I don't find anything that looks odd, so I open another tab and find a credible source that informs me that Bloodroot is only native to Canada and the Northeastern US, and apparently, in ancient times, it was used for ulcers, as a blood purifier, and for skin conditions, which I find interesting since that is what caused Troy’s scarring, but I digress. Bloodroot juice is used for sore throats and coughs. It’s an early spring wildflower, so it makes sense that Troy would have been exposed to it since he died in late spring. The next part is what stands out to me. So, if the killer had used Bloodroot as a salve or paste on his skin, it would have caused scarring. Were they torturing Troy? That thought makes my skin crawl. And why? I mean, the arsenic did the trick fast, so why choose Bloodroot? It doesn't make sense. I then pull up a map of all the local nurseries to see if they sell it. There are a few places in Tooele, but I don’t see them listed for sale. I check Salt Lake City, which takes me quite some time. There are dozens of nurseries in the valley and Salt Lake County. I see one place, a small nursery located in West Valley. It would take me about 20 minutes to drive there since it’s in Western Salt Lake County, not quite as far as Salt Lake City. I grab my notepad and pen and write down the address and number. It’s open until 6:00, so I have plenty of time to grab some breakfast since it’s only 9:00 and then head over. Gray never said to go there just to tell him if I found something, but I have some time to kill since my client meeting was canceled. It won’t hurt if I just do some window shopping, right? If I can take a few pics and get one of the workers’ names, Gray will have that much more to work with. What could go wrong?

I freeze and wonder if I should turn around or quickly open the door and shut and lock it. I turn around and see a woman, her hands on her hips, an angry frown planted on her face. “Excuse me?” I feign my own anger. “I live here. What are  doing here?” She looked as if I slapped her. “You know what I’m talking about. You were at the Carmichael’s snooping around.” Wait, what? How did she know that? No one was on the street, and I didn’t see a car. “Umm … did you see me there?” I didn’t want to come right out and confess after all. “Yeah. I was in the unmarked car next door,” she said, pointing behind her, “keeping an eye on the property, as the Chief asked me to do, and which I have done for the past three days.” Well, shoot. She caught me. Damn, now what? “I’m waiting.” She taps her foot. I have to think fast. “My dog escaped, so I was checking to see if he took off next door. He usually goes over there when I take him out on our walks since Deanna has a dog. I thought he wandered over there, so I asked my good friend, Leah, to come and help me look. I just hate being out at night, especially given what happened.” Damn, I’m a good liar. She stares at me, probably deciding if she believes me. “Did you find your dog?” “No, and then I got a text from my husband telling me he found him in our backdoor neighbor's yard.” She hesitated before saying, “Well, glad you found him. I’m Detective Maria Sanchez, and I would appreciate that if you see anyone suspicious hanging around or driving by you contact me immediately. Usually, the suspect will return to the crime scene if they know it’s been discovered. So, we’re keeping a close watch.” I kind of shine my flashlight where it illuminates her but doesn’t blind her. Maria looked no older than my youngest son and was short, too, shorter than me even, but I could tell she worked out. Her muscles bulged out of the black t-shirt she was wearing, and her jeans fit snug on her thin, but not too thin, waist. Her black hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, and she wore no makeup. It was 9:30 at night and the last place she wanted to be, I’m sure. She gives me a card with her name and number and then returns to her car. I quietly open the door, shut it behind me, and lock it even though we have the security system   I still feel better locking it immediately instead of waiting minutes for it to lock automatically. I can’t hear Brock, so I figure he’s still in the attic. It’s now after 9:30 and I’m beat. Hercules runs to me and starts wagging his tail. “Hey, Herc, ready to hit the sack?” I stop in the kitchen, grab some tea and crackers, and head to my room. I can’t lie; sneaking around next door was scary, but it was also a little thrilling. I read for a while and then turn off the lights. My phone buzzes. THAT WAS CLOSE, HUH? My heart skips a beat. How did they know what happened, unless … am I being watched? ARE YOU WATCHING ME? I wait. No response. Who is this person and how do they know where I live? I’m starting to feel uneasy and wonder if I should have never responded to their messages, but not knowing is worse. At least, I have a record I can take to the police if needed. I drift off but toss and turn, and when I wake up, I feel like I didn’t get a lick of sleep. Brock wasn’t next to me. He must have crashed on the couch. Although, when I walk downstairs, it’s quiet and Brock isn’t there, and when I search the rest of the house, I discover he’s not there. I turn my arm to check the time and see it’s almost 7:30, which I find odd that Brock isn’t here. He’s a night owl, especially with the case he’s been working on. Maybe he went into the office. I do my morning routine and head downstairs, Hercules on my heels, when I hear a rapid knock which makes me jump a little. I look out the peephole and open the door to Deanna Carmichael. “Trice, do you have some time to talk?” Deanna looks haggard, and something urgent in her voice concerns me. Purple creases under her bloodshot eyes that now look even greener, and her blonde matted hair makes her look ten years older. She’s wearing some gray Yoga pants and a plain black t-shirt. “Of course,” I usher inside. I’m shocked to see her, figuring she wouldn’t want to be anywhere near her home. “How are you and the kids?” She follows me into the kitchen, where I get two glasses from the cupboard and grab juice from the fridge. When she sits down, I fill her glass and then place it in front of her. “The kids are OK. They’re with my mom, and the younger ones think we’re just visiting, but my oldest son keeps asking questions of why they can’t go home.  Trice, when I found his …” she trails off, furrows her brows, and rubs her head, “The kids weren’t home, thank God. They were having a sleepover with my parents, and I figured that while they were gone, I would get out and do some yard work since the weeds were getting out of control. I noticed some of the plants had wilted from our storm.” Well, shoot, I feel guilty now for thinking she didn’t care about her yard. “Anyway, I started digging those purple flowers.” “Asters,” I say. “Yes, asters. I noticed many were wilting and didn’t look very good, so I started digging them, and that’s when I saw the … hand.” Her voice cracks and tears slide down her face. I reach over and grab her hand. “That must have been awful,” I say, squeezing her hand. “It was. I immediately called the police and well, you know everything now. I’m just … I don’t know how to deal with this. I don’t know what to tell the kids about their father.” I take a chance and say, “How come you and the kids haven’t seen him in two years?” She doesn’t say anything for a minute and then sighs. “Troy told me he and the woman he had an affair with were moving to the Northeast, I think he said New Hampshire, but he would let me know when they got settled. He never did. I tried his cell phone numerous times, and it always just rang. I would leave so many messages. I figured he just wanted to start a new life and didn’t care about us anymore.” That didn’t make sense to me. “But would he really do that, Deanna? He loved those kids. I just don’t see him leaving and never contacting you guys.” She glares at me, and I figure I have gone too far. “What are you getting at, Patrice?” Uh, oh, no one calls me by my full name. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to offend you. I just find it strange that after you guys divorce, he leaves, and you don’t hear anything from him. Then two years later, his dead body was found in your yard. I’m not blaming you for anything, just trying to make sense of it.” She gets up. “I – I shouldn’t have come here. First, I’m interrogated by the police who think I could have killed him, then Troy’s mother, and now you, my friend.” She looks hurt, and I realize I should have just listened. “No, please, don’t leave. You came here as a friend, and I shouldn’t judge you.” Her stance softens, and she sits back down. I need to just shut up. “The thing is Troy’s mom blames me. She’s never liked me and said that even if I didn’t kill him, I might as well have.” She starts crying again. “She blames  ? He was the one who had an affair and it had been going on for a year, a whole freaking YEAR.” An angry tone takes over, and her face shows it. “She then blames me for the affair. Can you even …” “I’m so sorry. Apparently, she thought her son could do no wrong, which is often a parent’s attitude, especially a mother.” If any of my sons ever do that to their wives, I will clock them. But I know mothers who coddle their sons and enable their behavior. “Yeah, and now she’s probably telling all her church friends about me. I can’t go back to church now.” I knew Deanna was a Non-denominational Christian, and they go to the local and only church in town – the same one Carmichael’s worship. The prominent religion is the LDS one, so the Community of Christ congregation, one I have been to a few times, isn’t huge, but the two religions sometimes host events together. Before I can say anything, my phone rings not buzzes. Hardly anyone calls me, so I answer. “This is Trice.” “Hey, Trice, this is Gray. I need to talk to you. Can you stop by in about 10 minutes?” His voice sounds urgent. “Yeah, sure. What’s this concerning?” I sound formal, but I don’t want Gray to know I’m talking to Deanna. “We found something disturbing.”