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It’s Wednesday night, and I have less than two days on whether to press charges on my nephew. All day yesterday, I tried not to think about everything that had happened in just the last week – scratch that – the last two months since I’ve known about the plan to kill and dump Troy’s body. Officer Lopez had to conduct police business but ensured another police officer patrolled the area. I tried keeping myself busy by cleaning the house and doing more light gardening. The roses needed pruning, and I pulled some weeds before my back screamed at me to stop. It's now around 10:00 pm, and hope it’s not too late, but I have to text Patrice. I should have done it yesterday, but I also didn’t want to seem like a pest since she has no clue who I am; who knows, she may think I’m the killer messing around. I pick up my phone and punch in, asking if she’s ready for another riddle. Since I haven't heard from her in a while, I want to ensure she will respond; however, I get back a message I wasn’t expecting, and now I fear I’m making her mad. I quickly text to assure her I’m not someone to fear but that I can’t divulge my identity for fear of my family being targeted and that if she blocks me, she will never know the truth. I decide to wait to send her the riddle about the ring. She may need some time to cool off. But someone has to find it before my nephew or Colton – the one who lost it. It’s the only way justice can be served.  Before I know it, it’s Thursday morning, and I have one day to decide about my nephew. I’m woken by my phone buzzing on the nightstand. I glance at the clock – 6:45. My brain goes on overdrive, wondering if there’s an emergency. Are the kids and grandkids OK? I turn on my lamp and find my glasses. There is a hint of dawn I can see through the closed shades. The days are getting shorter. I pick up my phone and see a message from an unknown number. I KNOW WHAT YOU DID I toss the phone on my bed as if it were on fire and grab the blankets, holding them close. Is this the person who hired my nephew to kill Troy? And then I think about what Chief Errington said about pressing charges against my nephew. If I do, who says he won’t contact his thugs to come for me? But if I don’t, who knows what he will do or try to do to me? There is no win. I have to decide, and I have 24 hours to do it, and I have to message Patrice about the ring, so I punch in the riddle. I quickly get a text message with the right answer, so I punch in “very good,” but what I got back wasn’t what I expected. No, she’s not a child.  I start to second-guess telling her at all about anything. I quickly punch in that she’s not a child, but if she finds the ring, she finds the killer. But it wasn’t Colton who killed Troy; it was my nephew. Still, if she can find the ring before he does, it may lead to the police unraveling everything. I get up and pace the floor. Should I confide in Officer Lopez about my fears? What will she say? Will she keep my secret or go straight to the Chief? No, I can’t do that. I get up, go into the bathroom, and splash cold water on my face. It helps, but only a little. I put on my robe and slippers and go downstairs. It’s quiet. I see Officer Lopez lying on the crème-colored microfiber couch in the living room. She’s on her side with a blanket over her. I don’t want to wake her, so I go into the kitchen and get some water. I’m not hungry and don’t dare go outside without protection, so I sit in the living room chair and turn on the TV very low. About halfway through watching one of my favorite classics,  I hear Officer Lopez stirring. I pause the movie and turn to her. She yawns and rubs her eyes. “Good morning,” I say, getting up. “Sleep well?” “Yes, thank you. What time is it?” I check my phone. “It’s almost 8:30.” “That late?” She pops up and grabs her phone. “Oh shit, I have a meeting in fifteen minutes with Chief. I can’t leave you here, though.” “Oh, don’t worry about me. I will lock all the doors, and it’s not like I can’t pick up the phone and call if needed.” Even though I’m petrified of being alone, I also don’t want to go back to the station and sit and wait. I need to really think about what to do.  “Are you sure? I won’t be gone too long. And before I go, I will check around the property and ensure nothing looks strange or no car is parked somewhere.” She runs her fingers through her hair and then grabs her bag. She pulls out another police uniform, a brush, toothbrush and paste, and a tube of lip gloss and rushes to the bathroom. Five minutes later, she comes back out looking put together. “Do you want some coffee or something before you leave?” I ask, starting to walk to the kitchen. “Oh no, don’t worry about me. I’ll run through McDonald’s and grab a few cups for me and the Chief – always do it.” “Okay.” She takes out her holster, straps it to her waist, and places her gun in a large slot on the side. I have no idea about guns, so I can’t tell what type of gun it is. I do feel safer knowing she has it, in any case. She opens the front door, and I follow, just peeking my head outside. “Stay in,” she puts a protective hand to stop me. “I don’t want anyone to know someone is here alone.” I obey and back up. She shuts the door, and I immediately rush into the small room known as the foyer, but the "welcome room,” according to my mother. I flip one of the blinds open and look out. The street looks empty; by now, the sun is peering down on the world. I look right and left and see nobody and then see Officer Lopez go out to the sidewalk and glance to her left and right. She turns and heads next door, and I lose sight of her. I hear the engine turn on a few minutes later, and she leaves. I’m all alone. I walk back into the kitchen and get breakfast, listening for any noise. All my senses are heightened, and I have to take some deep breaths. All the doors are locked. I’m safe. I go back and sit on the couch and push play on the TV. I am not going to let my fear keep me frozen. I finally have the freedom to enjoy the home I’ve lived in for 40 years. It’s a two-story home built in the 60s; with four bedrooms, two baths, a living, family, dining room, a spacious kitchen, and a sliding back door out into the patio. All the bedrooms were upstairs, and while the boys were growing up, I had one extra room I used for all my sewing and crafts. I used to wallpaper the rooms depending on my mood. Now, the wallpaper is gone, and before Willis passed, we repainted the kitchen a pastel yellow with a few forest scenery accent portraits. The living and family rooms and bathrooms were painted off-white with burgundy trim, and the upstairs bedrooms and bathrooms were all slate blue. I found some antique portraits of Paris and hung them in our room, reminding us of our honeymoon in 1970. We were going to go back for our 50th anniversary three years ago, but Willis passed the year before. I remember how he loved the woodshop that he built adjacent to our garage. He would build all types of things: cabinets, tables, lamps, desks, and more. That was his man cave, he called it, a place he could relax and do what he loved. I often curse at him that he left me alone. Once the movie ends, I glance at my phone’s clock and realize Officer Lopez has been gone for nearly two hours. That’s a long meeting. I wonder what’s going on, but then I’m sure it’s none of my business. My phone buzzes, and I jump, too afraid to look. SORRY – MEETING JUST ENDED, HUNGRY? I take a deep breath; thank God it was just Officer Lopez. It is nearly noon, and I am hungry, so I text back. YES BURGER AND FRIES SOUND GOOD? OF COURSE. I don’t get to eat hamburgers or fries, so getting them twice in just a few days is Heaven. I hear her pull up about 10 minutes later. She opens the door, balancing two bags, two drinks, and her bag slung over her shoulder. I hurry to help, taking the drinks before she spills them. We go into the kitchen, and she gives me a bag, and I give her a drink. I asked for a Coke since I hadn’t had one in over a year. I slurp the zingy goodness, and it slides down my throat. Ahhh … the taste reminds me of a young mom when I drank Coke every day to make it through, with two rough and tumble boys you had to. I eat my burger and most of my fries, and a little while later, I feel the food coma come on, so I tell Officer Lopez I’m going to take a short nap. I can’t sleep for longer than 40 or so minutes, or I wake up groggy and can’t sleep well at night. “Go ahead. I have some paperwork to get done,” she says, opening her laptop. I head up the stairs and, out of habit, peer into my nephew’s room. I freeze. My eyes grow big, and I can’t stop myself. I scream. The window is wide open, and a man wearing a ski mask and dark clothing is climbing through it. His dark eyes meet mine. He comes toward me.

I start panicking, realizing that all the pills I thought I had never taken and that were under my mattress are gone. I sweep my hand all over and find nothing. Did my nephew take them? And then I recall that the doctor told me I had too much medication in my system. But how did my nephew find them? And why didn’t I notice they were missing? I wouldn’t have noticed they were gone unless he only took one. But when would he have done that? And then it hits me: my shower! Every morning, I shower at 7:30. He must have come in and taken one under my mattress and then brought me juice with one of the pills in the bottle. He knew I wasn’t taking them, so he opened the capsules and poured them into my drink. Then, another realization – he would bring me a glass of juice in the morning before work, briefly at lunch, and then at dinner. Now, the million-dollar question – how did he not know I wasn’t taking them? Maybe I will get more answers from Chief Errington. I go downstairs and see the house has been cleaned and gasp. I wasn’t gone more than 10 minutes. “Oh, wow, I wasn’t expecting you to make it spotless,” I say as she’s putting away the vacuum. I glance around at the clean tables and floors and smell a lemony scent. Did she use Pledge? I don’t know much about her, but I do know she cleans pretty good. “Oh, no bother. My mother used to clean our house until it shined. She had OCD, so she would clean it, sometimes three times a day, and taught us kids how to deeply clean a home. My husband certainly appreciates it.” She turns around. “You look nice. I like the lipstick choice,” she smiles. I love red, but I don’t put it on too much, but today, I felt like wearing it. It’s not a bright red, more like a ruby, so it doesn’t stand out. I put a little more color on my cheeks too. My nephew never liked me wearing makeup, told me I looked like I was trying too hard to look younger. I wanted to tell him that just because I was older didn’t mean I was dead. After asking if I was ready, we head out. I lock the door and grab the mail from the attached box next to it; I flip through the pieces and notice a letter addressed to my nephew, but no returned address. I slip it in my purse, vowing to read it later. It’s starting to rain, and I take it in, loving the smell.  I hear thunderclaps getting closer, and before long, the wind picks up, and heavy rain pelts the windshield. Thankfully, the police station is only a few miles away.   “Sorry, I don’t have an umbrella,” Officer Lopez says when she stops the car in the parking lot. I grab my purse and pull out one. “I do. It’s compact enough to fit in this thing.” She laughs. “I need to get me one of those.” When I get out, I open it up and come around to where she’s at, and we both walk quickly into the station. After shaking the water off, I close the umbrella. I have been in this police station more times in the last two days than ever. A flurry of activity is once again filling the room. At least five police officers are at their desks, and a few people who got arrested are sitting in chairs, handcuffed. I look down, not wanting to draw attention and walk into Chief Errington’s office. He looks up. “Hey, glad you’re here. Sit down and give me a minute and we can get to some questions.” Before I speak, he gets up and goes out of the room. “Lopez, follow me.” After they’re both gone, I sit and wait – what I feel like I’ve been doing all week. I see his Police Academy Certificate framed on the wall behind his desk and another one of him shaking hands with Mayor Peterson. A large calendar is on the other side of the wall, littered with notes and circled dates. At least one other person uses a calendar. I figure if it’s staring me in the face every day I go into the kitchen, I’m not having to remember it in my phone. I know, call me old school, but sometimes technology sucks. A few minutes later, both come back in. “Okay, Chief Errington says, sitting down at his desk. Officer Lopez pulls up another chair and sits in it. “I’m going to ask you some questions, and Officer Lopez is going to write down your answers. Don’t be nervous. We’re just trying to understand the relationship between you and your nephew.” I look down, fidgeting with my blouse. How much do I tell him? “Okay,” I say, trying to quiet my shaking knees. “Just answer to the best of your ability.” He looks down at his pad of paper. “Which side of the family is your nephew on, yours or your late husband’s? “Mine. He’s my brother’s son.” “Okay. And how long has he been living with you?” “About a year now. He moved in when my brother passed. His wife kicked him out, and he had no place to go. I felt bad, so let him live with me until he could get back on his feet.” It sounds silly now, as I say it. The man is 34 years old, and he’s living with his aunt. “Got it. Now, I understand from your doctor that you both went to see him for anxiety last year, right?” I hesitate to answer him. I can’t lie to him. “Well, that’s what he told the doctor, but he told me a week later, after my blood tests came back, that the doctor thought I had dementia because he noticed my memory was slipping and yada yada, so the doctor prescribed pills that would help. He has Power of Attorney and Medical Power of Attorney, so they believed him. But my memory is fine, probably better than most people’s, and the medication was making me feel tired, dizzy, and not like myself. So, I stopped taking them. When he gave them to me, I would pretend to swallow but keep the pills to the side of my mouth; they were pretty small, so I could conceal them – or so I thought. When he left, I took it out and stuffed it under the mattress.” I stop, wrestling with whether to tell him they’re gone. But, if he already knows everything else, I have to tell him this too. “I checked just before we came here and they’re gone, so he had to have been finding them and putting the capsules into my juice or milk daily.” Chief Errington sat back and stroked his chin. “Yes, that would make sense and why your levels were so high. Do you have a life insurance policy?” “Yes. I think the last I checked it was $200,000.” “Yeah, that’s a good amount. It sounds like your nephew was trying to kill you, but make it look like the dementia was. I’ve seen this before and read numerous cases on this. If someone has a Medical Power of Attorney, they can make all the decisions on someone’s behalf, which can be dangerous.” I knew that but the warning about harming my family was emotional blackmail to keep my mouth shut. “I talked to your doctor at length, and he said you are healthy, except for some anxiety you had when your husband passed away and which flares occasionally. Your blood pressure is a little low, but he prescribed the beta-blocker only because your nephew said the panic attacks could get debilitating and even Xanax wasn’t calming you down.” Hearing this shocks me. If I take Xanax, I’m out for hours. No wonder I’ve been so lethargic and out of it. And at night, after he dosed my drink, I felt tired and went to sleep early. He wanted to keep me so drugged that the excessive dosages would eventually cause a heart attack or stroke. “Anyway, when he was questioned, he made a bunch of excuses about how he didn’t know giving you more would hurt because he felt you needed a higher dose and that since he opened them and put them in your juice it might lessen the effects. With this new information you’re giving us, it sounds like he was doing it behind your back because he knew you weren’t taking them, and so to ensure you were still getting them, he put his own plan in place.” “What a jackass,” I hear Officer Lopez blurt out. The Chief shot her a warning look. “I know, but how he’s been treating her is unacceptable. He needs jail time.” I agree, and I know what would put him away for a long time, but was I ready to confess that I know he’s the one who killed Troy? With the person who put the hit out on him still out there and the smoke grenade, I’m still very scared of retaliation, even though I don’t have 100% knowledge of who actually hired my nephew to do it. No, I need to keep quiet – for now. “Well, now I need to know. Do you want to press charges for what he did to you?” I knew this was coming. If I say no, it will look bad; if I say yes, what would happen? Would he be charged a fee, spend 90 days in jail, and then get out and exact his revenge? I’m torn, and the look on my face shows it because the Chief sighs deeply. “I know this is a tough decision, but if you are being threatened or if he’s purposefully harming you, he needs to be stopped.” “Listen, I get you’re scared, but if your nephew isn’t charged, who’s to say he doesn’t do something even worse?” Officer Lopez makes eye contact with the Chief, and he nods. “What will happen if I do press charges?” “Well, that’s up to a judge to decide, but if it’s proven his overdosing was done out of malcontent, he will be charged a hefty fee and could be sentenced to prison for a time or have probation. It all depends on if the judge thinks this was intent to kill since he, in essence, was poisoning you,” Chief Errington opens up his desk drawer and pulls out a pad of sticky notes. He jots down a name and number. He then pushes it in front of me. “This is someone I think you should talk to – she’s a counselor who deals with abusive family members, especially in the elderly. I don’t want to pressure you, but we can only hold him for 72 hours. If, after that, he isn’t charged, we will have no choice but to let him go. If you can talk to this counselor before then, she can help you decide what’s best for you. How does that sound?” I think about it. It would be nice to get a counselor’s opinion on what I should do. This is not something I’ve ever had to deal with. It couldn’t hurt. “Okay, I’ll call her.” “I’ve already let her know to expect your call if you agree, so the sooner you get into see her, the better,” Chief Errington gets up. “In the meantime, Officer Lopez will be staying with you. If you do decide to charge your nephew, he will be in the county jail until his hearing. That could be days or weeks. I want you to be protected, so if that occurs, we need to make more accommodations to ensure your safety.” “This time, since I knew I would be staying at your home, I brought my suitcase, so it’s in my car, and we can head back to your place right now. You can call this counselor and get an appointment scheduled.” Officer Lopez gets up from her chair, and we all walk out of the police station. “Let me know your decision no later than Friday Morning,” Chief Errington says. It was Tuesday now. I have less than 72 hours to make my decision. Do I press charges or let my nephew go free, knowing that he could plan something worse, and I would never know it. It’s time for another riddle.

I’m out of the hyperbaric chamber, have been checked, and heading back to my room. Surprisingly, or unsurprisingly, I feel better than I have in years. My head is clear, my body feels rejuvenated, and I can take in a very deep breath! It makes me feel angry that I’ve been overdosed for a year now and that my nephew was doing it on purpose. It makes me that much more dedicated to having Patrice solve this crime and put away everyone involved. I know I’m a target now, and so I have to be very careful what steps I take, but I’m determined to get my life back and my home and see justice done. That afternoon, Doctor Wagstaff comes in and gives me good news. “Well, we got your latest test results back, and your liver enzymes are back where they should be, and your blood looks good too. Getting the meds out of your system will take a few more days, but the oxygen therapy worked. How do you feel?” He touches my arm. “I feel great. It’s like I can think clearly and breathe much easier.” “That was the goal. I do want to inform you that your nephew has been arrested, and Chief Errington in Grantsville needs you to come in and answer questions.” I give him a startled look. “To the police station?” “Yes. It’s all been cleared out now.” “But, have they caught the person who threw the smoke grenade?” I could tell Doctor Wagstaff was lost in thought. “Well, they have a suspect, but he has a pretty good alibi. The Chief will fill you in once you talk to him. It’s not my place to really talk about this.”  I’m feeling nervous suddenly, but I understand he doesn’t want to get involved. It’s not even his city. “Oh, okay. So, am I good to go home?” I then remember that if my nephew were arrested, I’d be back alone in my house – with a target on my back. “I will get your discharge papers ready, but yes. Do you have someone to pick you up?” “No, I don’t have my car. My nephew uses it.” “Okay. Let me call Chief Errington and have a police officer come and escort you home.” I nod and thank him, but that good feeling and clear-headed thinking is becoming replaced with fear and anxiety. Is the same person I saw driving slowly a few days ago the same one who smoked out the police station? Will he be stalking me? I don’t even own a gun. How am I going to protect myself?  An hour later, I’m in the same squad car I was in a few days ago with Officer Lopez. We don’t talk much, and I wonder if she’s thinking the same thing about this suspect they brought in. “So, I heard a suspect was brought in for questioning about the other night.” “Yeah, he was questioned for a bit, but he’s got a pretty good alibi. The night we got smoked out, he was sitting in the county jail.” Now, I’m confused. “What made him a suspect?” She scrunches her eyebrows inward. “Well, he threatened the Chief about a month ago, angry because there was a domestic disturbance, what they call it, even though his wife called the police because he was abusing her. They were called, and she got a restraining order put on him, but the morning his wife went into labor, he tried to see her at the hospital and was forbidden. So, he camped out on the hospital's steps and made quite the ruckus, yelling and threatening the Chief. Police were called, and he was arrested when he resisted and tried attacking them with his knife.  That was around 7:30 that evening. So, it couldn’t have been him.” “Oh, I see.” Back to square one with no suspect and no way to know if this person will try something again. “But, we are doing everything we can to get leads. And I will stay with you for the next week, so you will be safe.” “What about your family? I can’t do that to you.” “Don’t worry. My kids are staying with my parents. My husband is on a business trip, and my mom talked about wanting to do something with the kids before they went back to school in early September, so I’m fine to stick around,” she said as she pulled up to my driveway and parked. “Aren’t we going to the station?” I say as she flips the rearview mirror to look at herself. She rakes her fingers through her hair. “Yes, but I’m sure you want to get changed.” I look down at my clothes and realize I’m still wearing the scrubs from the hospital, and my face turns warm from embarrassment. “Oh yes, of course.” “I will come in and wait for you while you get changed,” she says, then opens the car door. I’m hesitant to walk into my house. Even though I’m pretty sure it’s safe, I still see the scene of the night someone was shot in my home. The blood, the sirens, it all comes back, and I stop. “Are you OK to go in?" She cringes as if she understands now. "Of course, I should have thought you would probably be a little fearful.” I wring my hands. “I do feel safe with you here, but the memory of that night …” “Is still in your thoughts,” she says, saying what I feel. “It’s OK to feel frightened.” She reaches out and takes my hand. I take out my keys and unlock the door, and Officer Lopez goes in before me, telling me to wait until she can give the all-clear. A few minutes later, she returns breathlessly. “Okay, it’s clear; you can come in.” I walk in and feel like it’s been forever since I’ve been there, even though I was only at the hospital for a day. But I notice dishes on the living room side table, paper plates and cups, and a cereal box lying on its side with the contents on the floor. Beer cans are littered across the living room table, and a blanket is crumpled up on the chair. Trash is strewn everywhere as if no one cared about throwing anything away. “Looks like your nephew threw a party in your absence.”  She starts grabbing the cans off the table. I feel anger rising in my chest.  “Yes, it looks that way.” We go around cleaning up. I go into the kitchen and see another mess: food left-out, dishes sitting in the sink. Did my brother not teach him respect? And then I remember that he didn’t even have self-respect, out drinking all night and never taking responsibility for his kids. It’s such a shame when the kids suffer from their parent’s stupid choices. “You go get dressed, and I’ll finish here,” Officer Lopez says. “Just tell me where the vacuum is.” I point to our front closet. “In there.” I climb the stairs, hearing the vacuum turn on. I stop by my nephew’s room. I can only see a faint blood stain, but the bed looks like it hasn’t been touched. The bed is also made, which is odd because I’ve never seen my nephew make his bed. In my room, I get changed, brush my hair, and put on makeup. My eyes look clear, and my face looks healthier. Oxygen therapy really works. As I put away my eye cream in the medicine cabinet, I notice the medication my nephew gave me isn’t there, and then I remember. He’s been arrested, and the police must have searched the cabinet to find the medication for evidence. I then go out and check under my mattress for the pills I have been hiding for months now, but what I see makes my stomach drop. They’re gone.

Before getting into the next chapter, here is a minor job update and some tips for those  #opentowork . First, no, I don't have a job - still. It's been 7 1/2 months, and it's hard not to lose hope, but I'm trying. At this point, I have decided to hire a career coach. Maybe they can help me figure out why no offers have been coming. It's not like I don't have the skills & experience, and qualifications for the roles I apply for, but it's more than that. There are fake jobs, ones where the company isn't really hiring, keeping up the facade that they are, and ageism is at play. But, I do have to say that using ChaptGPT for my cover letters has been amazing; that's tip #1. Tip #2 is to review the job description and then ensure the job is posted on their website or another credible career platform. Scammers are getting very good at   job. Tip #3, don't just apply to anything and everything; you waste your time and that of the company. Make sure you have at least 70% of the qualifications. Tip #4, Don't follow career or job advice on Tik-Tok. There is so much confusion surrounding what to do and not do. Follow these recruiters on LinkedIn; they are very experienced and know what's up: Amy Miller Leah Dillon Alexis Rivera Scott Darrell Clack Jalonni Weaver Ndidi Okafor 🇳🇬 Nick Sherigian Tiana Watts-Porter Reno Perry And again, if you or anyone you know is hiring for a remote content marketing manager with years of experience who can lead a team to be rockstars in their field, please DM me. Onto the next chapter ... My sleep is fitful. It doesn’t help that the nurse checks my vitals every few hours. What’s going to happen when I get home? Will my nephew get arrested? And my worst fear – was he trying to kill me? I shiver and pull the covers over my head and try to sleep. The next morning, I awake to a different nurse gently rousing me. “Hi, I’m Nurse Marigold; yes, my real name,” she says with a little smirk. “I’m here to check your vitals once again, and the doctor wants to talk to you about hyperbaric chamber treatment. These treatments are for people with carbon monoxide poisoning or extreme smoke inhalation. But the doctor wants to do a treatment, considering the smoke grenade was not just a harmless object but designed to cause injury. He will explain more when he comes in soon.” I know using hyperbaric oxygen treatment is reserved for the worst cases, so I’m a little confused why the doctor wants me to do this, but I don’t say anything.  “Right now, I’m going to get you a hot breakfast. It’s good to eat and be hydrated before you go in. I’m adding some more fluids to your IV, and then I’ll bring in a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon, hashbrowns, and toast,” Nurse Marigold says. I watch her doing her job and notice she walks with a little limp. Her short blonde bob is curled inward under her chin, and she’s wearing bright pink scrubs with green speckles. Her brown eyes are big, and her eyelashes are long and coated with black mascara, with a deep rosy color spread across her lids. A deep pink gloss shines on her lips. She’s pretty tall, and I now notice her small pregnancy bump, about five months, I surmise. “Congratulations on the little one,” I turn my gaze to her belly. “Oh, thank you,” she says tenderly, rubbing her stomach. “Due on November 18th and is already giving me fits with how much she moves.” I mentally calculate she’s six months pregnant, but she looks so tiny. I looked like a whale when I was that far along. But of course, I don’t say anything. “Oh, a little girl. I’ve always wanted one but got two sons instead. I do have three granddaughters and one great-granddaughter, so I’m happy,” I say, and then let out a little gasp, thinking of my family and the warning from my nephew. Nurse Marigold stops what she’s doing. “Are you OK?” She touches my leg. “Sorry, yes. I was just thinking that my sons don’t know I’m here and that I should probably tell them.” “Of course, but let’s wait until we get you out of the hyperbaric chamber. And, without further ado, I’m going to go grab your breakfast so we can get this show on the road.” Nurse Marigold pulls the wide door open and then shuts it behind her. I’m alone now. I look around the room and see heavy dark blue curtains pushed aside from a large window; when I peer out, I see that I’m up at least three stories, maybe more. I can see a bunch of buildings that make up Salt Lake City, but the one that really stands out is the Capitol building that sits on the hill, looking over the valley. I’ve only been to this hospital three times many years ago, twice when my boys were born and then when my son, Jared, got run over on his bike. He was 11 and was turning onto our street when a teenager came flying out of nowhere and hit him. Thankfully, he only broke his leg and had some scratches and bruises on his elbow. He wore a helmet, so no concussion. Back then, LDS Hospital was the closest. It’s changed so much now, expanding its wings quite a bit from 45 years ago. I notice raindrops pelting the window as the American flag beside the American Express building blows in the wind. It’s raining, and I’m sitting in a hospital bed, so I can’t enjoy it. Below the window is a small maroon sofa, and I wonder if it folds out into a bed for loved ones. It would barely miss my bed and be quite tight. Across from me, I see a whiteboard with the nurse’s name and instructions written in black, and to the side, a portrait of a calm blue ocean and the sun just going over the horizon. The sky is dotted with clouds. It’s peaceful scenery, and I feel my eyelids getting heavy, but then spring back open when Nurse Marigold opens the heavy steel door and brings with her a white tray. She sits it on my sliding table, then moves it over my bed so I can get to it. “This looks delicious,” I say, eating the eggs first. “Some hospital food is actually palatable,” she winks at me. Just then, Doctor Wagstaff comes in, looking fresh and like he’s had 12 hours of sleep, even though I know he hasn’t. He probably didn’t get home until late last night and has had to do rounds this morning. I only know this because my son is a doctor at St. Marks in the city, and when my grandkids were younger, my daughter-in-law stayed home and worked as a freelance graphic designer. Now their two children are grown and gone; the oldest has two kids. What are the lyrics in the song   about the son wanting time with his father, but he never has the time, and then when the son grows up with kids of his own, the father wants time, and then the son doesn’t have the time for him? Yeah, kind of like that. And the cycle goes around. “So, the last blood test we did last night showed you have cyanide, which means the smoke grenade was made of some nasty stuff. Not sure how they were able to make it, but cyanide is a harmful gas, as I’m sure you know, and can cause major health issues if inhaled, so I have set up oxygen therapy for you in our hyperbaric chamber. Do you know what that is?” “Kind of,” I say, cocking my head to the side. “A hyperbaric chamber is used for people with carbon monoxide or cyanide poisoning, among other illnesses. You are put into a sealed but clear chamber, and an increase of pure oxygen is released. You will be wearing a mask to help deliver it to your lungs, which will help to dispel the harmful gases. You will feel some pressure in your ears as if you are in a plane ascending or at high elevations. Swallow or yawn to help clear it, and it will only be temporary, so no need to worry. And there will be a team monitoring you. I will come back and check on you after you’re done, but someone will be there the whole time. Afterward, they will check your blood pressure, pulse, and ears. That’s it.” I’m trying to take in all the information, but I give him a tired smile. “We need to prep you, and there are strict rules we need to follow. First, you will need to take a shower. We need you squeaky clean, meaning no lotions, deodorant, perfume … “ he stops, then takes one of my hands and looks at my nails. “Good, you have no new nail polish 'cause we can’t have that either. “So, you wash your body and hair. Once you’re done, you will be given a 100% cotton gown or scrubs – your choice – to put on, and you will wear a special bracelet that discharges any static buildup. "We will supply you with a blanket and pillow to keep you comfortable, and you can have a water bottle, as we want to keep you hydrated. But, no phone and reading materials or glasses, watches, or jewelry are allowed. We will provide a large TV, so you can watch a movie or show.” Oh great, I won’t be able to see or hear. “The treatment takes about two hours, and you can nap if you would like. You’re not claustrophobic, right?” “No, I’ve been in MRI machines before.” “Good. Okay, as soon as you finish your breakfast, Nurse Fitzgerald will get your gown and bracelet, and you can get your shower. Both shampoo and conditioner are available. Wash thoroughly, please.” Doctor Wagstaff jots down notes on my chart. “I will be back in about 30 minutes, and we will get started. Sound good?” I nod. I haven’t even thought about Chief Errington and Officer Lopez, and hope they’re doing ok. I ask him about them. “They’re doing fine,” Doctor Wagstaff smiles. “We gave them some oxygen and checked them out. They called to inquire how you were doing early this morning. They seemed quite concerned about you.”  At least someone cares. My own nephew has been trying to kill me, possibly. And I conclude that after my treatment, I will call my kids. They need to know what’s happening before they hear it on the news. _____________________________________________________________ Before I know it, I am in light blue scrubs with the bracelet on my right wrist and being slid into the oxygen chamber. It feels a little weird, but at least I can see everything outside of it.  The chamber is white and cylindrical. There is another empty one next to mine, so I can get a mirror image of what I’m in and notice it’s transparent and sealed. The chamber closes, and I hear a  sound. “You good?” I hear one of the technicians say. I look over and see a phone pressed to her ear. “Yes, thank you,” I say, hearing my voice echoing with my mask on. “Okay. We are releasing the oxygen now. Remember, you will feel some fullness in your ears. Just swallow or yawn for a minute or so.” I hear a  and suddenly, the flow of oxygen enters my nose and mouth, and I breathe it in, and true to her word, my ears start feeling full, so I yawn and swallow as much as possible. Soon, the sensation ceases. “Would you like to watch TV?” I wish I could, but without my bifocals, I can’t see a damn thing. “No, I can’t really see without my glasses.” “Oh, I’m sorry. I wish we could give them to you.” “It’s Ok. I may just close my eyes and rest. It’s been a tiring few days.” “Of course. Ok, I’m right here if you need me.” I close my eyes and try to think of good things, but the negative thoughts drive the good ones away. I wonder where my nephew is and if he even knows what happened to me. But, then, of course, he would have to know. I’m sure Chief Errington told him, but was that after or before they arrested him? I wish I knew what was going on. Would my nephew really want to kill me, and why? I didn’t get much life insurance from Willis and had even less after the funeral. I have a retirement to live on, but still, I don’t have much money. Why would he want me dead? Plus, he just got twenty thousand from killing Troy. But if investigators put it together that he was trying to either kill me or seriously harm me, would they also discover he killed Troy too? The last thought I have before drifting off is that I’m the only one who knows the truth, and twice now, I’ve been the target of someone wanting to kill me. I’m the loose end.

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?