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The next morning, I wake up, and Melanie is already up and gone. It’s like she can’t even stand to be in our bed at the same time. Our life was great before the incident; she blamed me. I don’t know if that’s why she had an affair, but I’m not the one who killed someone and then had her spouse cover it up, and then two years later, has an affair and wants a divorce. We haven’t said anything to the kids, but honestly, I doubt they would care. They know their mom loves her job more than she loves them. Can you imagine living with a mother who couldn’t care less about what you did or didn’t do? I worry about Jayden and whether he will rebel and do something to get her attention, even if it’s bad. Kirsten is only six but seems to be in her own world with her YouTube Kids videos, books, and ballet. Melanie more than once told me to take her to a psychiatrist because she has the signs of autism, but I think she’s wrong. This is how she copes with a neglectful mother. I try to pay special attention to her and take her on daddy-daughter dates, which she enjoys. I tell her Melanie is struggling with work and often has to travel, but she loves her, yada yada. I don’t think she buys it. After lunch and saying goodbye to the kids, I put the Lexus in reverse and back out of the garage. If I time it right, I should be at the cabin around 1:45-2:00, depending on the Long Island Expressway traffic.  I texted Grant about thirty minutes ago, and he said he would be on his way around 1:00, just ten minutes away. The plan is to get there, talk to Troy, and have Grant show up shortly after for backup if needed. It's Saturday afternoon, and the expressway is busy but not too bad. By the time I reach the cabin road, it’s 1:42, shorter than I expected. I text Grant, and he’s fifteen minutes away, which makes me nervous. I only want to be here for ten minutes – max. I drive the winding road to the cabin, glance out the window, and see the clear blue lake, the sun shimmering on the surface. It takes me back to swimming with Melanie here, with no one around. It was our paradise, but now, I know she’s taken Troy here, and it hurts. I see Troy’s Range Rover parked on the side of the cabin. I think about his wife and kids. Do they know anything happening, that their husband and father is having an affair with a married woman with her own kids? I roll my fist into a ball as I sit, waiting a few minutes. The dark brown log cabin looks dark, so I wonder if he’s down by the lake. I get out and look through the windows and see no one, although I do notice a glass sitting on the coffee table and a sweater laid over the back of the chair. The two-story cabin isn’t huge; five wide steps lead to a deck of some sort. It has two bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a small closet in the hall, with a loft on the second floor - two windows jutting out. Melanie decorated it, of course, buying the best furniture money could buy. On the outside, it doesn’t look like much, with a few boxwood shrubs and azaleas on the east side, but when you step in, you see beautiful dark cherry oak paneling, which matches the flooring. White granite counters in the kitchen match the appliances to contrast with the wood. A large rectangular cherry walnut table features six matching chairs and a centerpiece of fake silk light pink roses, red zinnias, purple ranunculus, and eucalyptus nicely arranged in a crystal vase, with baby's breath to accent them. The living room boasts a deep blue sectional with creme pillows and a large TV with a surround sound system. A large framed oil painting of Jean-Baptise Joseph Pater's   towers over it. A dark blue comforter adorns a king-sized bed in the guest bedroom, with another oil painting of Paris, but the scene is  by Alexander Rusu, an iconic painting from the 1930s. A deep cherry oak dresser directly across the bed. A side table on each side of the bed matches the dark wood. I installed a fan in each bedroom since summers can get quite hot. The master bedroom has a deep maroon comforter and the same furniture. Two framed portraits of Long Island and Upstate, our two homes, are above the bed and the dresser. I walk by the lake and see Troy lying on a lawn chair, a beer sitting on a small table. As I get closer, I can see earbuds sticking out of his ears and his eyes closed. I stare at the man who ruined my marriage, and for just a moment, I fantasize what it would be like to … I snap back to reality. He doesn’t know I’m here, so I tap his shoulder. Troy snaps his head up and sees me looking at him. He pulls out his earbuds and sits up. “Jeff.” “Troy,” I say back. “What’s up?” I say as if I didn’t know he’s been banging my wife. “Listen, I’ll only be a few minutes. I know you’re having an affair with Melanie."Troy's eyes bulge out, but then they soften, and I can detect a hint of victory. "Yeah, it’s been going on for a year.” The smug look on Troy’s face makes me angry. “Yeah, well, she needs a real man, and you’re not it,” he says and gets up. I step back, not sure what will happen next. “Well, if you knew what Melanie did ten years ago, you may think she’s not a real woman.” He waves his hand away. “Oh,  Yeah, I know. She told me what happened. And she told me it was   fault.” He folded his arms, and the same smug look returned. I didn’t expect this. I thought it would take a few minutes to spill the beans, not that Troy would already know. “You know, your little plan of supposedly telling me about Melanie’s dastardly crime and me shocked would leave her, and you could be a wonderful family again failed spectacularly.” The anger boils up, my face getting red, my heart racing. He came closer to me, chest-to-chest. “You will never get her back,” Troy says. The thoughts spin through my mind, take over, and fear grips my soul. My family is gone; my kids will be broken up, and my dream of the perfect family will be destroyed. I didn’t know what to say, but I couldn’t let Troy ruin what I spent a decade building. He would not win. “Oh, you have no idea what I’m capable of, so don’t push me.” Troy was easily three inches taller than me, but I had muscle strength he didn’t have. I push him back from invading my space. Troy is taken aback but comes at me, pushing my shoulders. The rage built up in my body, and before I could stop myself, I felt my arm swing back, my fist balling up, and then strike his face. Troy almost falls backward from the blow. His nose is bloody. “You son of a bitch. You will pay for that.” He comes at me, but I duck his advances and charge at him, grabbing his legs and pulling him down, then climbing on his chest. “This won’t end well for you,” I say, my eyes bulging, the adrenaline flooding my body. “What are you going to do? Kill me?” He’s challenging me, but I’m not a murderer like my wife. “No, I’m not a murderer. But you will stop seeing my wife. If you don’t, I will release to the media who you really are.” Troy’s eyes expand as the fear arrives. “Oh, I guess you didn’t know what my private investigator dredged up about you.” Troy gulps hard. “Look, man, that was a long time ago. It’s behind me; if you tell the media, my life is ruined. I’ll leave Melanie, but please don’t say a word.” I smile. I now have the upper hand, and he knows it. Some time ago, Troy got in hot water with the feds when he trespassed on government property with his buddies and nearly burned a city building down after lighting fireworks off on the Fourth of July and catching dry brush on fire. He was arrested and had to spend 90 days in jail, pay a fee of $3,000, and complete 120 service hours. He was 18. “That’s better.” I get off him, and he wipes the blood from his nose with his sleeve. “You will tell her it's over when she returns from Florida next week. Got it?” He nods. “Fine. Just leave me alone.” He backs away and grabs his beer. “I want you out of my cabin now. Go get your stuff and get out.” “Jeesh, okay. Chill,” he says and then starts towards the cabin. He starts up the five stairs, and I start to follow but stop when I see Troy trip over his feet on the last step and fall forward hard, landing on the concrete pad that led to the door. A  stuns me, and Troy isn’t moving. My first thought is that he hit his head and was knocked out. I run up the steps and pull Troy on his back, blood flowing from his head. I panic. Suddenly, I see Grant running through the trees toward me. “What the hell, Jeff? What happened?” “I – I don’t know. One minute he’s going up the stairs, and the next, he falls forward, landing on his face. It's a lot of blood.” Grant kneels and presses his ear to his chest. “He’s breathing.” I watch more blood seep out of his head and press my hand to his head to staunch the flow. After a few minutes, we drag him off the pad and on the ground. I pull off my shirt and wrap it around his head tightly, noticing a deep cut on the corner. I don’t even have a medical kit. “Damn, this wasn’t supposed to happen. If I tell the police, there’s no way to prove I didn’t hurt him. I fought with him. My prints are all over. What am I going to do?” I pace back and forth, running my hands through my hair. “Okay. What’s in the cabin?” I look at him strangely. “What do you mean?” “Do you have anything we can give him that would look like suicide, like meds?” At first, I'm stunned Grant would say something like that, but then it may not be such a bad idea if he dies here. I think about what’s in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. I doubt any meds have been sitting here for years. I shake my head. This is crazy. He’s not dead yet. Maybe we can save him. “Okay, let me think.” At this point, I don't notice more blood soaking my gray t-shirt, so it must be stopping, and I hear moaning. Grant and I whip our heads around and see Troy trying to get up and then fall back. “Don’t get up. You fell and cut your head. I think most of the blood has stopped by now, but you probably need stitches," I tell him. “What the hell happened?” He puts his hand to his head and quickly takes it off, sticky blood covering his hand. I have to think fast. Doesn’t he know we fought before he tripped and fell – that I threatened him? “Don’t you remember?” I say. “I remember you following me to the cabin so I could leave, and then all went black. Did you do this to me?” I shake my head aggressively. “No, you tripped and fell on your face, hitting your forehead on the cement pad.” His eyes look swollen, and his cheeks and forehead are a deep purple. If we clean him up and still use the threat against him, he can leave, and we can go back home, no harm, no foul. Grant looks at me, the deep grooves etched in between his eyebrows. “Hey, Jeff, can I talk to you a minute?” Troy stares at Grant; confusion dots his face. “Who’s this?” Troy says. “A friend. I contacted him when you fell and passed out,” I lie. But Grant does have some medical experience, as he was in medical school for three years. We help Troy back into the cabin. “Man, I feel so dizzy,” Troy says, “and I want to sleep.” “Dude, you have a concussion. You can’t go to sleep right now,” Grant says. “Where’s your cups?” I point to the cabinet. He pulls out a plastic cup and opens the fridge. A few water bottles sit on the shelf, so he pulls one out and opens it up, leaving the cup on the counter. He comes over and tells Troy to drink some water. “This will help,” he says. I stare at Troy. How did the day go so wrong? He can’t drive home. I will have to drive him myself and hope he doesn’t fall asleep. And what if Melanie finds out? Would she go to the police? The panic starts up again. How long do we stay here? Because as I look at Troy, he looks pretty beat up. I have to talk to Grant.  Should we leave him here? If he falls asleep, then the effect of the concussion takes over.  But the only people who know we’re here are me and Grant, but what if someone saw my car go down the cabin road? I get Grant away from Troy and ask him what we should do. “If I drive him home, what will he say? Will he tell Melanie? He could say I tried to kill him. I can’t let that happen.” Grant looked lost in thought. “Alright, hear me out,” he says, and I wait as he hesitates and then says something so crazy… It might just work.

Tomorrow is the day I head to the cabin to settle this whole affair thing with Troy Carmicheal. Melanie leaves for Florida tomorrow evening, and my parents are taking the kids for the weekend before they head to summer camp for the summer next Monday. I worked from home last week to stay with the kids and am exhausted. They go in early June and come back the first week of August. They love going and meeting tons of friends, and it gives them things to do instead of being bored all summer. It’s expensive but worth it. I contacted Grant and gave him the time I expected to be there, and he said he’d be there shortly after. His flight comes in tonight, so he’ll stay in a hotel and then drive to the cabin in Upstate New York in a secluded but gorgeous area at Sargents Ponds Wild Forest. Melanie and I used to go to the cabin for the weekend when the kids were little. It was our getaway place to unwind, drink wine, swim in the lake, and, well, you know. It’s been over four years since we’ve been there. I go every few months to maintain it and ensure no one has broken in and squatted there, but I rarely stay the night. It’s about 45 minutes from where we live, but far enough to feel like we were on vacation. Grant knew about the affair and said he wasn’t surprised and that Melanie seemed sketchy from the beginning, but I never listened because I was in love and, well, stupid. We lived together for a year before I asked her to marry me. I had taken her to lunch in Central Park, New York City’s famous park. I had hired a small orchestra to come and serenade us with her favorite song: All of Me by John Legend. She sang it to me on our first anniversary of dating, so I figured it would be a hit when I proposed a year later. I was right. Jayden came a year later and Kirsten three years later, and we were complete. Melanie told me she was getting her tubes tied because pregnancy didn’t “agree with me.” I couldn’t blame her. She was sick with both kids, Jayden was a week late, and Kristen was nearly ten days late. They were both nearly 8 pounds at birth, and although she lost the baby weight fairly quickly, she hated the stretch marks left on her stomach and thighs. I thought she looked beautiful, and still do. “When’s dinner?” Jayden flies into the living room after doing his homework. He plops down on the couch and grabs the remote. He’s my mini-me, with the same dark brown hair and eyes and the crooked smile he flashes when getting his photo taken. He has his mom’s lips and nose, but there’s no doubt he’s my son. Kirsten has beautiful, long, naturally curly auburn hair like her mom, with emerald eyes that pop out when she’s angry. At only six, she has the same fire in her as Melanie. But unlike her friends, she likes science and watches YouTube videos about anything and everything in the field. She matter-of-factly told me she wanted to be a scientist when she grew up. I believe her. “Fried chicken is on the grill, sport.” Jayden punches the air. It’s his favorite meal during the summer. I have a secret recipe handed down from generation to generation. Potato salad, fresh watermelon, and strawberry lemonade complete the meal. Before the kids head to summer camp, we go on vacation together, and since they’re only gone eight weeks, they still have three weeks at home before school starts again, so we have time to grill and hang out at the local park. We sometimes head to the city for summer events. Kirsten comes in a few minutes later with her iPad and sits on the chair. Between her and Jayden, they are the complete opposite. He loves sports; she loves ballet. She is prim and proper, always with her hair combed nicely and wearing designer clothes Melanie bought her. Jayden wears whatever clean clothes he can find and rakes his fingers through his hair to “comb it.” It didn’t really bother him if he didn’t shower, but in a few years, when puberty hits, he will need to shower daily. Melanie walks through the door, shuts it, and goes straight upstairs. I give her a few minutes to unwind before asking about her day since she often tells me, “Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it now.” Sometimes, I wait until after dinner when she’s more open to talking. I would rather wait than provoke her wrath. I head out back to check on the chicken. The smell permeates my senses, and I realize how hungry I am. I open the grill hood, turn the chicken over, and check the juices.  I go back in and grab the watermelon, potato salad, and lemonade from the fridge, balancing them in my hands while I bump the fridge door to shut it. After pulling out the paper plates, utensils, and cups, I take out one of our large pans, load the food and utensils on it and go back out. We have a large patio with a glass table and six soft-cushioned chairs. The patio shades the setting, so we don’t worry about the weather. Our three-story home sits on a two-acre piece of land nestled on the east end of Long Island. It’s only five minutes to the Atlantic Ocean, and in Spring and Fall, we would have days at the beach, enjoying the weather. Melanie decorated everything in the house and then told me after. I didn’t get a say, but I didn’t mind. She has good taste, and everything was professionally designed and decorated by her good friend, Jalice, one of the best interior decorators on the island. The house was new when we moved into the gated community, and I had a clean slate to work with in the yard. We planted some crabapple and cherry blossom trees, Oakleaf hydrangeas that I got to turn blue by adding lots of acid, and some strawberry, raspberry, and blackberry bushes alongside our back fence. On the east side, some boxwoods make for a nice hedge, and on the west, there’s a large gondola for shade, with ivy growing up the sides and over the top. A large water fountain sits adjacent to the pool I installed a few years later. It took me time to earn the high six figures I make now, but I’m glad the kids go to a private school and can do things I never could growing up in Grantsville. We lived in a modest home, but we rarely went on vacation. And my dad was a farmer, so there wasn’t much money to feed a family of six, but somehow, he did. My mom did Avon and Tupperware for years and made some good money, but that went into our college fund. All four kids, two sons and two daughters left the state and graduated. I went to NYU to be where I wanted to work, Wall on Street. It’s not easy breaking into that company, and I worked my butt off, but I made it. I’m a good stockbroker, so I make the big bucks. The chicken was done, and we all went out back to eat. Melanie was distant, as she surfed on her phone most of the time and would only say, “Uh huh, okay,” to the kids, talking to them about their day. They gave up, and I tried to fill in the gaps so they knew they were being listened to and that I cared. Later that night, I lit into Melanie. “You’ve said like two words to the kids today,” I said, pulling off my shoes and laying them by the bed. I pull my head up and look at her, still on her phone. Silence. “Melanie, did you even hear me?” She tore herself away and gave me a pouty look, her eyebrows pulled down, and her lips pursed. “Yes, I heard you.” “Well …” “Well, what? She turns her arm outward like she’s confused as to why I said that. “They were just telling me about what you did with them – the perfect father.” Her eyes bore into me; she huffed and then returned to her phone. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Nothing. They think you’re wonderful and could do no wrong, but if they knew what I know, they might not love their father so much.” Melanie will never let me live this down: the day she accidentally killed a man because she thought he was breaking into the house, even though I told him the code so he could come in and install our cables for our network. I thought she wouldn’t be home for another hour, and the technician would have been gone by then. Melanie punched in the code when she left work early to meet Troy. She saw the stranger kneeling in the office, but before asking any questions, she pulled out her 9-millimeter Glock 19 pistol and pulled the trigger. She hit his back, and the man yelled in agony, but instead of calling the police, she fired one more bullet into his head. That did the trick – he was dead. She just left him there and then called me and told me what happened. I rushed home and immediately called the police. Melanie told them she thought he was a burglar and shot him in self-defense. I didn't even know she owned a gun, but I remember she was paranoid about everything, so I shouldn't have been surprised. When they found the body, a knife (one Melanie pulled from our knife block and used to wipe his fingerprints on) was laid next to him. I was shocked but went along with it. If the police knew she had murdered him, I would have lost her.   The police matched the fingerprints to the knife and that was that, but I never forgot what my wife did, and I helped cover it up. This was before our marriage and kids. “What  did? Melanie, you killed someone,” I say, whispering. “I thought he had broken in and was defending myself. You never told me he would be there.” “You weren’t supposed to be home for another hour,” I shoot back. We have had this conversation numerous times, and she uses it as a weapon against me when she needs to be the victim. “Wow, I come home early for the first time in a year, and I’m supposed to know YOU allowed someone to come into my home and install wires. I guess I should have asked questions and then shot.” “Yeah, you should have. Didn’t you notice his uniform before you murdered him?” She snaps her head back. “I didn’t see the logo since it was on the front of his shirt, and he had his back to me. Don’t you  blame this on me. What would you have done? Oh, never mind,” she flips her hand back, “you would have only pointed the gun and asked him what he was doing there. Well, I’m not you. I feared for my life. Women get murdered far more than men, and he could have tried to sexually assault me.” I want to tell her it’s her paranoia sickness, but think better of it. The last thing I need to do is trigger more anger. She has the last word – always. I wave her off and walk into the bathroom. It’s no good arguing with her. As my dad used to say, “Sometimes it’s easier to shut your mouth and keep the peace than to argue and ruin your day.” My parents have been married for 40 years, but I don’t know if Melanie and I will last 15, let alone 40 years. I return, Melanie’s light is off, and the covers are pulled over her. I think about tomorrow. I will leave shortly after Melanie leaves for the airport, around 1:00 p.m. Her flight doesn’t leave until nearly 5:00, but she worries that traffic will keep her from getting there on time, and she will miss her flight. I know Troy went there tonight and would be there until Sunday. I just need five minutes to tell him what I know and for him to call off the affair, or I may have to buy him off. It doesn’t matter; I'm prepared to do whatever it takes to get Melanie back. Hopefully, I don’t have a problem with Troy.

PART THREE THE EX The bitch. I knew something was going on with her and Troy, but I never thought she would leave me for  We have been together nearly ten years, and then this bastard walks into her life, and she leaves – no explanation except for, “I’m sorry, but I’ve been having an affair with a man I fell in love with. I want a divorce.” We have two kids: what about them? No, this isn’t acceptable. I’ve worked too hard to see my family destroyed. I will end this. Now, I know I can’t force Melanie to stop seeing him since she’s a grown-ass adult, but if he disappears, well …. And no, I won’t kill him. I’m not a sadist or maniac. I need to buy him off. I had to think strategically about this. I knew she would be at a conference in Florida, and Troy would be at the cabin for a week. She asked if I could take the kids while she was gone – a whole week without seeing them. I guess it doesn’t matter since she rarely sees them now. I care for the kids, prepare them for school, do their homework, and take them to soccer and ballet classes. Our son is 9, and our daughter is 6. We got married soon after college; I was 24, she was 22. I turn 34 next month, and Melanie will be 32 in December – Christmas Eve. Anyway, he will be at the cabin, so I will stop by to get his price, and that will be it. Yeah, I know, if he really loves her, he will tell me to go to hell, but not if I tell him the secret I’ve had about her for over ten years. You see, Melanie did something that could be considered unforgivable, but I did forgive her because I loved her, and it was partly my fault. Still, Troy doesn’t need to know that. I’ve spent too long mending fences and building our family to let it all be torn down. Once Troy’s gone, Melanie will be heartbroken, yes, but it will give me the opportunity to get her into therapy. She has refused to go for years, and it’s taken a toll. Her paranoid schizophrenia is worsening, and it’s been hard on the kids – and me. She tells me at least every week that someone is out to get the family. She won’t let the kids play outside or sometimes even on their phones unless she monitors everything. But they only have games and YouTube Kids. Still, she thinks some predator is out to kidnap and kill them. We live in a safe neighborhood in Long Island, New York, and I’m sure you’re wondering how Melanie even met Troy, who lives clear across the country in Utah, of all places. Well, he’s a mason and travels for work. I hired the company he works for to build our new home. Their reputation was stellar, and the company was in Grantsville, the city where my good buddy, Grant, lived and where I grew up before moving East to pursue my career. I knew the family who owned it and knew they were top-notch. Well, one thing led to another, and I knew something was going on, but I couldn’t prove it until I hired a private detective and confirmed my suspicions. I didn’t know how long it had been going on until she told me – over a year. Her conferences to Utah three times last year were supposedly for her job, as she’s an account executive for a top ad agency in New York. But I’m not stupid. I hired Detective Rangely for a pretty penny, and he followed her to Grantsville and took some pretty damning photos of the two of them. I knew in my heart it was true, but seeing them together broke my heart. Now, I thought about the possibilities of things going south while at the cabin, so I enlisted some help from Grant. If Troy threatens or attacks me, he will be waiting near a grove of trees. I don’t want to hurt him, but I won’t let him hurt me, either. The cabin  mine and has been in the family for decades. She gave him the keys to MY cabin. It’s half past 8:00 Wednesday morning when I get out of the shower. It’s getting warmer from the wet and cold winter we’ve had. May is my favorite time of year. It’s the time when I can start planting my gardens. I’m a horticulturist; well, it’s my hobby, not a career. I work as a stockbroker on Wall Street, taking after my father and grandfather. Hey, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. I’ve made a lot of money investing in other people’s money. What’s not to love? I wipe the steam from the mirror and look at the man staring back. His dark brown hair shows signs of aging, with a few gray hairs at the sides and mingled with the rest. His jaw is strong and chiseled, and the abs are finally starting to pack on some muscle – not quite a six-pack – but if he continues working out and hiking every week, he’ll get there. He’s nearly 6 feet tall, not bad, and his sea blue eyes he got from his mom are his prominent features – at least, that’s what the women all said. Still, he doesn’t consider himself a “pretty boy” or “hot.” He has a long nose, small lips, and some annoying tics he’s had since childhood, diagnosed as mild Tourette’s. It means there are no yelling profanities or other major symptoms. He sometimes cricks his neck, constantly clears his throat, and twitches his eyes – something he lives with and tolerates, keeping things under control in social situations and at work. The kids are getting out of school next week, and then in late August, we all go on a Disney Cruise before they head back to school in early September. By then, Troy will be out of our lives, and Melanie and I may have mended a broken relationship. At least, this is my hope. I check my watch after slipping on my Christian Louboutin shoes I got from Saks; well, I didn’t buy them. Melanie did it for Christmas last year. She had never bought me expensive shoes, and looking back, I should have known she was being nice to me to assuage her guilt of having an affair. I take one last look in the downstairs mirror, patting down some strands of hair that seem to pop up daily due to my circular cowlick in the back of my head. My mother would get so frustrated trying to get it to stay down. I check around the house, ensuring the security system is ready, and head to the garage where my Lexus crossover sits. It’s perfect for four people, and since I’m the one who takes the kids everywhere, it has room for soccer balls, uniforms, a cooler for treats, and blankets. Melanie is always working and can never attend practices or even games. I once asked her why we even had kids if we weren’t both there for them. Her response: It’s MY time to play. Women have had to stay home for hundreds or thousands of years, and now it’s the men’s turn to stay home. I wished I had known her feelings before we had two kids because now, they have one parent and are always asking when mom will be home. What do I tell them, that they’re not wanted because it’s HER turn? I push the button on the side of the wall that opens the garage door. The sun is shining, and I feel warmth flood the garage when I step inside the Lexus. It will be nice to get away for a week with the kids; it seems like I haven’t had a vacation in years, and now that I think about it, the last time we went anywhere with them was to Disneyworld when Kirsten was 2, and Jayden was 5 – four years ago. I head to lower Manhattan about 9 miles west, but with traffic, it takes at least 35 minutes to get there. I’ve made this commute for over a decade now. Sometimes, I listen to a podcast while driving; other times, I put on Spotify and jam to my traffic playlist. (Yes, I do have one) Ten minutes into my drive, I get an alert on my GPS monitor from Apple Maps that traffic is backed up a few miles. Welcome to my life. Melanie leaves early for her office to miss it since she said it stresses her out to sit in traffic. She took the kids to school this morning since they missed the bus. I had worked late the night before and wanted to avoid getting up at 7:00 to get them to school. The bus comes right at 7:45 for the 8:15 bell, but sometimes, they play around and miss it. Melanie gets quite upset because she must be at her office by 8:30, her words, which is 30 minutes away. But she is the account executive, so coming in a few minutes late isn’t a big deal. She’s been at   in Brooklyn for over seven years now. We used to meet each other for lunch in Times Square. That all but stopped a few years ago. Our offices are about 10 minutes from each other, and we could carpool, but she goes in earlier than I do and stays later. It’s not a stretch for her to be gone by 7:00 a.m. and not home until 7:00 p.m. I often think about what went wrong. We were so in love, and then the affair happened. Well, I will rectify the situation, and Melanie will be mine again. It’s only a matter of time.

Time for a gardening post! Are you growing pumpkins for Halloween? In the 40th installment of Gardening Tips & Tricks, I put together a list of tips about pumpkins, especially preventing squash bugs, which are nasty critters that will decimate your pumpkins, squash, or other viny vegetables. Let's get into this! 🎃 Tip : Plant at the right time - if you're in the north, mid to late May is best; in the south, late June is best, so you should have yours already well underway. If you don't, here are tips for next year. One thing to note is that plants will rot before Halloween, so time it right! 🎃 Tip : Pumpkins will spread rapidly, so you need tons of room. They will crawl on the ground and send out shooters, and can take over entire gardens. Pumpkins can grow upwards of 40 feet! If there's not enough room, the plant will start shading itself and then rot as it needs a lot of sun. 🎃 Tip : Halloween pumpkins need a ton of sunlight - I'm talking at least 8-10 hours a day to grow big and healthy. And one plant can produce several pumpkins, so space them. 🎃 Tip : Pumpkins love water, so if you live in a drought-free area, have at it, but if you don't (like me) and still want to grow them, do it with a drip system. It saves tons of water and money. They need at least 2-4 inches per week, which, if you're not getting that type of rainfall, it's necessary to supplement them. 🎃 Tip : Plant your Halloween pumpkins with companion plants. The reason is to help prevent squash bugs, which are the killer of pumpkins. Ones to try include the following: - Catnip - Marigold - Nasturtiums - Petunias - Radishes - Mint 🎃 Tip : Keep the stem. When harvesting pumpkins, keep a long, healthy stem on the vine. This will help reduce the rotting process. 🎃 Tip : After Halloween, smash the pumpkins and use them as compost for your garden; they offer nutrients to help keep your soil and plants healthy and growing strong. Okay, if you're growing Halloween pumpkins, let me know in the comments and post a pic. This is one plant I have a hard time growing, so if you have had success, congrats! Next time, it's decorating time with pumpkins, so stay tuned! Happy Gardening! ____________________________________________________________ Hi, I've been a gardener for 30 years and love posting about my successes (and failures), so join my group, Gardening Tips & Tricks. Like, comment, share, and hit the 🔔 for when I post. If you love murder mysteries, sub to my newsletter, Musings & Mysteries, where I post my journey of finding a job and my novel, Asters & Arsenic: A Patrice Summers Mystery. Follow me on IG @hotmamagardner and check out my blog @ jewelswrites.blogspot.com

I turn and flee, but a strong arm grabs me from behind before I can get down the hall. Just then, Officer Lopez reaches the hallway, her gun drawn. “Don’t move,” she says, slowly moving forward. “No,  don’t move. I feel something cold press against my neck, knowing it’s a knife. “I will slit her throat.” I start to panic, and tears pool in my eyes. Is this it? Will I die at the hands of this person? “Drop the gun, and no one gets hurt. I’m just here to get something in his room,” he said, but his voice didn’t seem convincing. “Okay, I don’t want to cause you to use that against her.” Officer Lopez slowly places the gun on the floor and shows her hands; while doing so, her eyes trained on me, and I swear I can see her eye twitch, or was it a wink? “Good girl. Now, I’m going to keep this old woman here as a hostage while I look for something. If I see anything or if you come after us, she’s dead. Got me?” Again, with the old woman spiel. “Yes.” He drags me to my nephew’s room and closes the door behind us. “If you stay right here, you won’t get hurt.” I then watch him riffle through drawers, upend the mattress, throw open the closet, and pull out everything. I wasn’t just going to stand there while he destroyed my home. “What are you looking for? Maybe I can help you.” The man turns around. “Unless you know where he stashed the money, you can’t help me.” I instantly know he’s here to steal the $20,000 my nephew received from killing Troy. I doubt he would have left that much money lying around. As I see him looking under the bed, I see Officer Lopez just outside the window. She came the same way the intruder did – climbing our large cottonwood right outside my nephew’s window. I always hated that tree because of the tons of leaves I had to rake up every fall, but today, I'm grateful it's here and that she had the intelligence to outsmart this jackass, as she put it. I try not to stare when I see another gun. She slowly lifts one leg into the room and then the other. The man shoots up and sees the gun. “Hands up, now!” She comes to the side, never moving the gun off her target. The man slowly raises his hands. “Ok, ok, no need to get your panties in a bunch.” She finds the knife he laid on the dresser but doesn’t pick it up. It has his fingerprints on it. She pulls out a pair of handcuffs. “Turn around, hands behind your head.” The man does as he’s told. When she’s behind him, she puts her gun in her holster, grabs his hands, cuffs one of them, then leads him to the bed and cuffs the other hand to the bedpost. She reads him his Miranda rights. She grabs her two-way radio and calls for backup. I’m still shaking and press my fingers to my neck, knowing that this lunatic could have killed me. “What are you doing here?” Officer Lopez points the gun at him. He chuckles. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” “If you don’t tell me, you can tell the Chief.” “I got rights, remember, so until I have a lawyer, I’m not saying a damn thing.” He’s right; he does have rights, but I wished I could have gotten more out of him about the money. But I will forever be grateful to Officer Lopez for saving my life. If he hadn’t found the money, he might have killed me anyway or kept me hostage until my nephew gave him what he wanted. “Okay, we’ll play it your way. But you’d better have a damn good reason for breaking into this woman’s home and threatening to kill her. Oh wait … it doesn’t matter. You’re going to prison.” Soon after, I hear police sirens, and it’s de ja’ vu from when my nephew shot the guy in this very room. I hear heavy footsteps on the stairs, and then two police officers burst into the room. “Yay, the pigs are here,” the man snickers. “Oh look, the criminal has been caught,” one of the tall and buff police officers says, then grabs his arm and unlocks the cuff from the post. He then puts both hands behind his back. “Let’s go.” He stops in front of me. “Are you OK, ma’am?” He has kind brown eyes that match his hair, and his square jaw is prominent. “Yes, thank you.” He nods, and Officer Lopez pulls me away from the man as they lead him out of the room. I put my hand to my chest. “I can’t do this anymore. In less than a week, I’ve had two men break into my home, I got smoke poisoning at the police station and could have died. We’ve been followed, and now my nephew has also been poisoning me.” I then decide to tell her the secret I’ve held for over two months. “I have to tell you something.” Officer Lopez tells me to follow her downstairs and into the kitchen. One of the police officers stops me to ask questions, but Officer Lopez shuts him down. "Not right now." I feel numb, tears streaming down my face. I have to tell her. In the kitchen, she grabs a glass from the cupboard and presses it under the filtered water on the refrigerator door. I sit down, and she places the glass in front of me and sits down in front of me. “Go ahead.” I take a long drink, place the glass down, and place my hands on the table. “I know who killed Troy.” Simple, but Officer Lopez cocks her head, her eyebrows scrunched in. “Okay …” “My nephew.” I then recall everything that happened in the last two months: the death, placing Deanna’s necklace on his chest before dumping his body, the threats to my family, the lost ring, the payout, and my supposed dementia. It's a lot to confess, and I feel a huge weight drop from my shoulders. Officer Lopez sits back and folds her arms. Her eyebrows pull up as she says, “Wow. I’m so sorry you had to keep that secret. Your nephew is quite the jackass. But you do know we need to go to the Chief about this, right?” I knew that was the next step. “Yes. But I worry because my nephew has connections. There were five in this plot, and they could have planned something in case someone got caught. And now that at least one person has come looking for the money, who says someone else won’t break in and look for it?” Officer Lopez scratches her head, and I can tell she is trying to figure out what to say. “Look, I can’t promise you that won’t happen, but if we arrest your nephew – again – maybe we can get him to tell us who was involved, especially since at least two that we know of have tried to steal his $20,000 for killing Troy. If he knows they turned on him, he may throw them under the bus, so to speak. It took a lot of courage for you to tell me. But now, we must get to the police station and tell Chief.” I nod. It’s only afternoon, but suddenly I feel exhausted. I yawn and then get up. “I’ll let you have a few minutes to prepare yourself. I’ll be here when you’re ready.” Officer Lopez gets up and follows me out to the living room. I go back upstairs but am scared to go by his room. I gather my courage, go in, quickly close the window, lock it, and then cringe, forgetting that I shouldn’t disturb a crime scene. I then notice marks on the edge and start to run my finger over it but then stop. I do notice it was pried open, but with what? I figure the investigative team will be here sometime to document everything. After brushing my hair and splashing cold water on my face, I gasp in the mirror when I see purplish puffiness under my eyes. It looks like I aged ten years in just a few days. My gray hair looks dry and lifeless, and my face has small red blotches dotted on my cheeks. When I get stressed, my face breaks out, so this isn’t new, but I hate it. I open the medicine cabinet and grab the prescription cream my doctor gave me to help reduce the inflammation. I apply a small amount on my face and rub it in. Back downstairs, I grab my purse. “Okay, I’m ready.” Officer Lopez has her laptop open, and she's typing. She looks up. “Okay, let me finish these notes.” I wait for her to finish, and then she closes her laptop, places it in her bag, and drapes it over her shoulder. She opens the front door, peers out, and then motions me to follow her. It’s clear and hot as the sun beats down on my face. I squint and wish I had some sunglasses. We get to the police station, park, and walk in. This is the 3rd time I have been in this station in a week. We go straight to Chief Errington’s office. “Chief, we need to talk.” He looks up from his computer and motions for us to sit down. I clutch my purse in my lap, suddenly nervous to tell him what I told Officer Lopez.   “First, are you both OK?” I nod. Officer Lopez says, “Yes, but she’s a little shaken up and ..." She looks to me for confirmation, and I nod, "has something she needs to tell you.” He turns to me, his arms folded. I feel my heartbeat thumping hard, but tell him the same thing I said to Officer Lopez. After I finish, I lower my head, cover my eyes, and shake my head. ”I’m sorry I didn’t say anything.” he grabs the phone and punches in a number. “Hey, Judge Ralston, it’s about Troy Carmicheal’s murder.” He looks at me. “We have a witness.”

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.