Chapter 3 - The man in the photograph was named Malcolm Reed.He owned three businesses.
On paper.
In reality, police believed he operated several private gambling rooms around Baltimore.
I learned this at 4:20 in the morning while sitting in a hospital vending area, staring at a cup of coffee I couldn't taste.
Detective Hayes placed the photograph on the table.
“Your husband met Malcolm seventeen times in four months.”
“Why?”
“We don't know.”
“Then find out.”
“We are.”
Mark had stopped denying the meetings.
Instead, he kept repeating the same sentence.
“I owed him money.”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
“Enough for what?”
He stared at me.
“To ruin everything.”
The words stayed with me.
Meanwhile, Rachel finally called.
I answered immediately.
“Where are you?”
“At home.”
“You left the house.”
“I panicked.”
“You made Emma’s drink.”
“I know.”
“You need to tell me the truth.”
Silence.
Then Rachel whispered.
“I didn't poison her.”
“I never said poison.”
Another silence.
That sentence terrified me more than any accusation.
I drove home.
Rachel was waiting in the kitchen.
She looked exhausted.
The birthday decorations still hung from the ceiling.
Little gold stars.
Pink balloons.
A unicorn banner.
It looked obscene now.
“What happened?” I asked.
Rachel stared at the sink.
“I made the lemonade.”
“Did you put anything in it?”
“No.”
“Did Mark?”
She shook her head.
“Did he touch the pitcher?”
“Yes.”
My heart sank.
“When?”
“Before the party.”
“What did he do?”
“He poured himself a glass.”
“And?”
“He took a vial from his coat.”
I stared at her.
“What vial?”
“I don't know.”
“You just said he had one.”
“I saw glass.”
“Rachel.”
“I don't know what was in it.”
I stepped closer.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Because Mark threatened me.”
“With what?”
She reached into her purse.
Pulled out an envelope.
Inside were photocopies of loan agreements.
Her name was on them.
She had lent Mark money.
A lot of money.
“You knew about the gambling.”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred thousand.”
My voice broke.
“You gave my husband two hundred thousand dollars?”
“I thought he was investing it.”
“And then?”
“He asked for more.”
“How much?”
Rachel looked away.
“Eighty thousand.”
My stomach turned.
“You two were hiding all this from me?”
“I was scared.”
“You should have told me.”
“I tried.”
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“What happened?”
Rachel swallowed.
“Mark heard me.”
She looked toward the hallway.
“He told me if I said anything, you would never see Emma again.”
I stared at her.
That didn't sound like Mark.
At least not the man I thought I knew.
Then I noticed something on the counter.
A folded receipt.
I picked it up.
A pharmacy.
The date was two days before Emma's birthday.
I looked at the item.
A surgical sedative.
Twenty vials.
My hands began to shake.
Rachel whispered.
“That wasn't Mark's prescription.”
“Then whose was it?”
She didn't answer.
Outside, tires screeched.
A black SUV stopped across the street.
Its headlights remained on.
Rachel went pale.
“That's him.”
“Who?”
“Malcolm.”
The SUV door opened.
A man stepped out.
He looked toward our house.
Then he lifted his phone.
Mine vibrated.
Unknown number.
One message.
STOP LOOKING.
A second message arrived.
THE GIRL WAS NEVER THE TARGET.
I looked at Rachel.
“What does that mean?”
May you like
Before she could answer, the lights in the house went out.
And somewhere upstairs, Emma’s bedroom door slammed shut.
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