Chapter 2 - My Husband’s Face
Julian recovered quickly.
Too quickly.
“Mom probably means Chloe shouldn’t drink chamomile.”
Eleanor seized the explanation.
“Yes. Exactly.”
I looked at the overturned chair.
“You nearly tackled an eight-year-old over chamomile?”
Neither answered.
Chloe came to my side.
Julian smiled in that careful way people smile when they are trying to move a conversation somewhere safer.
“Nora, you’ve been under a lot of stress.”
There it was.
Not:
What did Chloe see?
Not:
What is in the jar?
Not:
Why did Mom panic?
Stress.
The word used whenever a woman notices something inconvenient.
I picked up the tea.
“Then you drink it.”
Julian froze.
Only for a second.
But I saw it.
Eleanor spoke first.
“He doesn’t like chamomile.”
“Neither does Chloe apparently.”
“Nora.”
Julian’s tone changed.
Firm.
Private.
The same tone he used when he wanted me to stop asking questions in front of other people.
“Not now.”
I looked at Chloe.
Then Eleanor.
Then him.
“Fine.”
I carried the cup toward the kitchen.
Eleanor stood.
“I’ll take it.”
“No.”
Our eyes met.
For ten years I had loved that woman.
I knew how she looked when angry.
How she looked when embarrassed.
How she looked when frightened.
This was different.
She looked cornered.
I sealed the tea in a clean container according to the preservation instructions I had received and placed it where Eleanor could not access it.
Julian followed me upstairs.
“What are you doing?”
“Saving my tea.”
He laughed nervously.
“Why?”
“Because Chloe says your mother has been putting powder in it.”
“She’s eight.”
“She described the exact container.”
His jaw tightened.
“You’ve been sick for months. You’re probably making connections because you’re scared.”
“I watched Eleanor do it this morning.”
That stopped him.
“You watched her?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Does it matter?”
His answer came too quickly.
“You shouldn’t spy on my mother.”
I stared at him.
“That’s what bothers you?”
“No, I’m saying—”
“She put something into my drink.”
“We don’t know what.”
“Then help me find out.”
He looked away.
That was the first crack.
I asked:
“Who is David Vance?”
He turned back.
“What?”
I held up photograph of the receipt.
He read the name.
His expression barely changed.
Barely.
“I don’t know.”
Lie.
I had been married to Julian for eleven years.
I knew when he lied.
His left thumb rubbed the edge of his wedding ring.
Always.
“Never heard the name?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Thumb moving.
I said nothing else.
That night I installed the small kitchen camera I had already purchased after speaking with counsel. I positioned it only in our shared kitchen, documenting conduct in a common area rather than invading a bedroom or bathroom.
Then I waited.
At 5:47 the next morning, Eleanor entered.
The camera recorded her making coffee for Julian.
Tea for me.
She removed the porcelain jar.
Added powder.
Then something unexpected happened.
Julian entered.
He looked directly at the cup.
Eleanor whispered something.
No clear audio from that distance.
Julian answered.
Then he picked up my cup.
For one hopeful second, I thought he was going to throw it away.
Instead, he carried it to my place at the table.
My husband knew.
I watched the footage three times.
Then once more with the sound amplified by the investigator working with my attorney.
The conversation was partially audible.
Eleanor:
“She’s suspicious.”
Julian:
“Then stop for a few days.”
Eleanor:
“You said we couldn’t.”
Julian:
“Not if she’s watching.”
My hands began shaking.
Not:
What are you doing to my wife?
Not:
Stop.
Stop for a few days.
Sienna sat beside me.
“Oh, Nora.”
I couldn’t cry yet.
Too much of me was still trying to solve the puzzle.
“David Vance.”
“What about him?”
“My husband knows.”
“How?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Then the investigator returned with preliminary public-record information.
David Vance existed.
Age sixty-four.
Former pharmacist.
Phoenix, Arizona.
Same city Eleanor visited twice a year.
Same last name as me?
Vance was my maiden name.
Nora Vance Hale.
I had kept Vance professionally after marriage.
David Vance was not related to Julian.
He might be related to me.
I called my father, who lived in Sacramento.
“Dad, do we know a David Vance?”
Silence.
Long enough.
“Dad?”
“Where did you hear that name?”
My stomach dropped.
“You know him.”
Another silence.
Then:
“Nora, don’t talk to David.”
“Who is he?”
My father’s voice became strained.
“Your uncle.”
I stood so suddenly my chair slid backward.
“I don’t have an uncle David.”
“Yes.”
“Mom was an only child.”
“No.”
Everything inside me went still.
My father whispered:
“Your mother had a brother.”
“Why did nobody tell me?”
“Because she never wanted you to know what he did.”
“What did he do?”
My father exhaled.
“He went to prison.”
“For what?”
“Tampering with medications.”
The room seemed to tilt.
May you like
Then my father said something even worse.
“Your mother testified against him.”
