Chapter 2 - The Cup She Did Not Drink)
The following morning, Georgia returned the sugar bowl to the kitchen as if nothing had happened.
Kristin had already decided not to confront her.
Fear could be irrational. Pregnancy had made her tired, sensitive to smells, and prone to sudden tears. She knew that. She also knew what she had seen.
So when Georgia set a fresh cup of chamomile beside her laptop after lunch, Kristin smiled.
"Thank you."
"You work too hard," Georgia said. "A woman in your condition needs someone to look after her."
Kristin waited until Georgia went upstairs. Then she poured half the tea into a clean glass jar, sealed it, and hid it behind a stack of frozen vegetables. She emptied the rest into the sink and left the cup on her desk.
For the next hour, she worked normally.
At three, Georgia came into the office without knocking. Her gaze moved first to Kristin, then to the empty cup.
"How do you feel?"
"Fine."
"Not sleepy?"
The question was gentle. The silence after it was not.
Kristin leaned back in her chair. "Should I be?"
Georgia picked up the cup. "Chamomile is relaxing. That's all I meant."
"I suppose it depends on what's in it."
For the first time since moving into the house, Georgia's expression went completely blank. No wounded smile. No maternal concern. She stood with the cup in her hand and studied Kristin as if calculating the distance between them.
Then she laughed.
"Honey, if you don't like my tea, you can say so."
"I don't like being watched while I drink it."
Georgia's fingers tightened around the handle. "Ethan told me pregnancy was making you anxious."
"Ethan didn't say that."
"You'd be surprised by what a son tells his mother."
She left and closed the door softly behind her.
That evening, Georgia behaved as though the exchange had never occurred. She made meatloaf, asked Ethan about a delayed project, and laughed at the story of a subcontractor who had installed a door backward. Kristin ate little. The jar behind the frozen vegetables seemed to radiate through the freezer door.
"I called the insurance company," Georgia said. "The repairs might take another ten weeks."
Ethan sighed. "That's a long time."
"I know I'm in the way."
"You aren't," he said automatically.
Kristin looked at him. "Maybe we should get a clearer timeline from the contractor. We could help speed things up."
Georgia's fork stopped halfway to her mouth.
"My home is contaminated with mold," she said. "Do you think I'm enjoying this?"
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
Ethan rubbed his forehead. "Can we not turn dinner into a fight?"
Kristin felt the old reflex rise in her: smooth the moment, apologize, restore the peace. Georgia was counting on it. Instead, Kristin put down her napkin.
"I saved some of yesterday's tea," she said.
The room became silent.
Ethan frowned. "Why?"
"Because I lost almost four hours after I drank it."
Georgia stared at her in disbelief. "Are you accusing me of drugging you?"
"I'm saying I want to know what was in the cup."
"It was chamomile."
"Then a test will confirm that."
Georgia stood so quickly that her chair struck the wall. Tears filled her eyes with astonishing speed.
"I gave up everything for you," she said to Ethan. "After your father died, I worked two jobs. I kept you fed. I protected you from things no child should know. Now your wife thinks I would poison her grandchild."
Ethan's face hardened, not with anger but with exhaustion. "Kristin, where is the tea?"
"In the freezer."
He opened the freezer and moved the vegetables aside.
The jar was gone.
Kristin searched every shelf. She pulled out bags and cartons, her movements becoming less controlled with each empty space.
"It was here."
Georgia made a broken sound and covered her mouth.
"Mom, go upstairs," Ethan said.
"You believe her?"
"I said go upstairs."
After she left, Ethan helped Kristin return the food to the freezer.
"I know what you're thinking," Kristin said.
"I don't know what to think."
"She took it."
"Or you moved it. You said you were answering emails. Maybe you forgot where you put it."
"I did not forget."
Ethan looked toward the stairs. "My mother can be controlling. She can make everything about herself. But drugging you? That's not the same thing."
"I know."
"Do you?"
The question wounded more than he intended. He saw it and reached for her, but she stepped away.
"I need air."
She went into the backyard. Twilight had turned the windows dark, and the first mosquitoes hovered above the grass. The shed door was locked. Georgia had replaced the small dark lock with a polished brass padlock.
Kristin approached it.
Something blue lay near the foundation. She bent and picked up a plastic pharmacy cap. The label had been peeled away, leaving only a thin strip of white adhesive.
Behind her, the kitchen curtain moved.
Georgia was watching.
Kristin closed her fingers around the cap and walked back toward the house.
May you like
She did not see the shallow carving near the bottom of the shed door. Rain and age had nearly erased it, but four letters remained beneath the peeling paint.
R A C H.
