Chapter 8 - THE PITCHER OF SANGRIA
The officers had collected the half-finished sangria pitcher from the patio bar simply because it was near the planning documents.
Initial testing later showed something it should not have contained.
Lorazepam.
A sedating medication.
Not enough to knock someone unconscious immediately.
Enough, potentially, to leave an older person groggy, slowed, or disoriented if consumed in the right amount.
Nora stared at Eric.
“You knew about the medication?”
He looked miserable.
“I found pills in Amanda’s purse two days before the barbecue. She told me they were for her sister.”
“Did you believe her?”
“No.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“Because I was already in too deep. She said if I turned on her, it would all look like my idea. The money problems, the trust documents, everything. She said I’d lose the kids.”
There it was.
Fear.
Cowardice.
And the selfish instinct to wait until danger hit its absolute edge before intervening.
“What happened at the barbecue?” Nora asked.
Eric looked at the table.
“When Amanda cornered you at the back door, I knew she was moving ahead. I went inside, used an old business phone I kept in the desk, and texted you.”
I stopped breathing for a second.
“You?”
He nodded.
“I also sent the anonymous report to the sheriff the night before, after I saw the guardianship packet and the Silver Pines deposit.”
The room went silent.
That explained the text.
The timing.
The number that did not exist.
It also explained why his phone had gone straight to voicemail from my car.
Law enforcement had confiscated it, and his main line was already in evidence because Amanda claimed he had nothing to do with any of it.
My son had saved me.
And my son had helped create the conditions requiring rescue.
Both were true.
He looked at me with a grief I had never seen in him.
“I should have stopped it before it got there.”
“Yes,” I said.
“I know.”
“No, Eric. I need you to understand that knowing now is not the same as knowing when she was collecting my statements and writing scripts about me. You did not save me from the beginning. You saved me at the edge.”
He bowed his head.
May you like
And because I am his mother, part of me wanted to comfort him.
I did not.
