For several seconds, neither of us moved.
Then he looked away.
Neither of us slept much.
The next morning, Karen called.
“They don’t think Mom had a stroke.”
I sat down.
“What do they think?”
“They’re running more tests.”
Across the kitchen, Mark held a newspaper he clearly wasn’t reading.
That afternoon, I visited my longtime doctor, Emily Lawson.
After hearing what happened, she closed the examination-room door.
“Diane, I need to ask you something unusual.”
“Okay.”
“Has anyone had regular access to your food or medication?”
My stomach tightened.
“Why?”
She turned the computer monitor toward me.
“One of your earlier blood tests showed traces of a prescription sedative. The amount was very low, and at the time we couldn’t determine whether it meant anything. I ordered a follow-up test, but you canceled when you said you were feeling better.”
I barely remembered canceling.
“Have you knowingly taken sedatives?”
“No.”
“Does Mark prepare food or drinks for you?”
I thought about the morning coffees.
The smoothies.
The dinners he had recently started insisting on cooking.
“Yes.”
Dr. Lawson ordered additional testing.
Afterward, I took the items from Sunday dinner to an independent laboratory.
“I want these analyzed.”
“For anything specific?”
“I don’t know.”
The testing was expensive.
I paid anyway.
Over the following days, Judith improved.
Doctors found no evidence of permanent neurological damage.
Mark, meanwhile, became more nervous.
Then the laboratory called.
The technician asked me to come in.
She closed the office door before speaking.
“We identified a strong prescription medication in the soup.”
“What would it do?”
“Depending on the amount, it can cause confusion, dizziness, sleepiness, memory problems, poor coordination, and impaired judgment.”
My symptoms.
All of them.
“What if someone received small amounts repeatedly?”
She hesitated.
“Over time, that person could appear cognitively impaired.”
Repeatedly.
That word changed everything.
This might not have been one incident.
It might have been months.
Then she handed me another report.
More than one person appeared to have handled the packet.
Until then, I had imagined Mark acting alone.
Now another possibility entered my mind.
And the first person I thought of was Judith.
The following morning, I contacted Tom Reynolds, a retired Indianapolis detective Harold had once recommended to us.
We met at a café.
Tom listened quietly while I told him everything.
Then he asked,
“Are you prepared for the possibility that your marriage may have been very different from what you believed?”
