Chapter 1 - Just before we lit Emma’s seventh birthday candles, my daughter collapsed.One second, she was laughing.
The next, her unicorn cup slipped from her fingers and shattered against the hardwood floor.
Emma’s little body folded beside the table.
“Emma!”
I dropped to my knees.
Her eyes were half open, but unfocused. Her lips moved as if she wanted to speak.
“Mama…”
Then her head rolled against my arm.
The birthday music continued playing.
A ridiculous little song about dancing rainbows filled the room while everyone screamed.
My husband, Mark, shoved two chairs aside and lifted Emma from the floor.
“Call 911!”
Someone knocked over the cake.
Pink frosting smeared across the white tablecloth.
My sister Rachel stood by the kitchen sink.
She was holding a wineglass.
And she wasn’t screaming.
That was the first thing that frightened me.
Everyone else was panicking.
Rachel was watching.
Not Emma.
Me.
Her face had gone strangely still, almost satisfied, as if she had been waiting for something to happen.
Then Mark looked down.
Emma’s unicorn cup was lying beside the broken pieces.
He picked it up.
Smelled it.
His expression changed.
“What?” I whispered.
He smelled it again.
Then he looked at Rachel.
“Who made her drink?”
Nobody answered.
Mark’s voice became colder.
“Who made the lemonade?”
Rachel slowly raised her eyes.
“I did.”
My stomach dropped.
“You made it?”
Rachel shrugged.
“She asked for lemonade. I made some.”
Mark stared at the cup.
“Where’s the pitcher?”
Rachel pointed toward the kitchen.
“Still there.”
Mark turned toward it.
I had never seen my husband look that frightened.
Not when his father died.
Not when our house flooded.
Not even when Emma was born three weeks early.
He looked at the pitcher like it was a loaded gun.
“What is it?” I asked.
Mark swallowed.
“There could be something in the drink.”
The ambulance arrived six minutes later.
It felt like six hours.
Paramedics cut open Emma’s pink sweater to place the monitors.
Her heartbeat was slow.
Too slow.
One medic asked what she had consumed.
“Lemonade,” I said.
“Any medication?”
“No.”
“Any allergies?”
“No.”
Mark stood behind me.
Silent.
The paramedic looked at him.
“Sir?”
Mark finally answered.
“She may have been exposed to a sedative.”
I turned.
“What?”
Mark rubbed his jaw.
“It’s something I recognize from work.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’ll explain later.”
“No. Explain now.”
He didn’t.
They rushed Emma to the hospital.
I climbed into the ambulance.
Mark followed in his car.
Rachel stayed behind.
While the hospital doors swallowed Emma, I realized my hands were covered in pink frosting.
Hours later, a doctor came out.
“She’s stable.”
My knees nearly gave way.
“But we found something unusual in her blood.”
“What?”
“A strong surgical sedative.”
I stared at him.
“How could she get that?”
“That’s what we need to determine.”
Mark appeared at the end of the corridor.
The doctor looked at him.
“You said you recognized the substance?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
Mark hesitated.
“Midazolam.”
The doctor nodded.
“That’s correct.”
I looked from one man to the other.
“Why would Mark know that?”
Neither answered.
Then a police officer walked toward us.
He held up a plastic evidence bag.
Inside was a tiny glass vial.
Half empty.
“We found this under your husband’s driver’s seat.”
I stared at Mark.
His face went pale.
The officer continued.
“Mr. Carter, can you explain why this was in your vehicle?”
Mark looked at me.
For the first time that night, he looked less like my husband.
He looked like a stranger.
“I can.”
The officer waited.
Mark opened his mouth.
And said nothing.
That silence was the beginning.
May you like
Because whatever had happened to Emma, someone had brought the sedative into our lives long before her birthday.
And somehow, my husband already knew exactly what it was.
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