“Yes.”
His face crumpled.
“But she loves you.”
“I thought she did.”
Julian stared into his cocoa.
Then he whispered, “She was scared after.”
“After what?”
“The milk.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
“What did you see?”
He shrugged.
“Mom made it.
Grandma gave her the little blue bottle.”
Silence.
My mother, who had been standing near the sink, dropped a spoon.
It hit the floor.
I turned.
“What?”
Deborah stared at Julian.
“What blue bottle?”
He looked confused.
“The one you had.”
My mother went pale.
“Julian, I never gave your mother a bottle.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No.”
“You did.”
His voice became defensive.
“At Aunt Renee’s house.
Before everybody came.”
My heart began to pound.
“What day?”
“The day before you died.”
My mother stepped forward.
“You’re mixing things up, sweetheart.”
Julian shook his head.
“No.”
“Maybe it was medicine.”
“You told Mommy, ‘Don’t use too much.’”
No one moved.
I looked at my mother.
Deborah laughed nervously.
“Renee, children—”
“What bottle?”
“I have no idea.”
“Julian says—”
“He’s seven.”
“He was right about me being alive.”
That silenced her.
Julian began crying.
I immediately regretted frightening him.
I knelt.
“Hey.
None of this is your fault.”
He wiped his nose.
“I drew it.”
My breath caught.
“What?”
“At school.”
Sabine had thrown away most of his drawings after the funeral.
But Julian kept one folded inside his backpack.
He pulled it out.
Crayon figures.
A house.
A woman with yellow hair—Sabine.
A man with black hair—Preston.
A stick figure lying on the floor.
Me.
And in the corner—
A woman with gray hair holding something blue.
Above her head Julian had written in crooked letters:
GRANMA MEDSIN
I stared at the drawing.
My mother stared too.
“Julian,” she said quietly, “can you tell me exactly what you saw?”
He nodded.
“You came in the back door.”
“What did I say?”
“You said Uncle Preston was waiting.”
My skin prickled.
My mother shook her head.
“That didn’t happen.”
Julian continued.
“You gave Mommy the bottle and said it was from the doctor.”
I looked at Deborah.
Something moved behind her eyes.
Not fear.
Calculation.
It vanished quickly.
Too quickly.
She knelt beside Julian.
“Sweetheart, sometimes when something scary happens, our brains put different memories together.”
I heard Dr.
Benson’s voice in my head.
Someone rehearsed your murder.
I wanted to believe my mother.
So badly that I hated myself for the doubt.
My mother had pulled me from the coffin.
She had risked everything.
She had hidden me.
Protected me.
Recorded Preston.
Saved my life.
Hadn’t she?
That evening, after Julian left, I asked her again.
“Did you give Sabine anything?”
“No.”
“Think.”
“I don’t need to think.”
Her voice sharpened.
“I did not help anyone poison my daughter.”
I flinched.
She softened instantly.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
She reached for me.
I stepped backward.
Her hand remained suspended between us.
For the first time since my funeral, I saw pain in my mother’s face that I did not automatically trust.
5. I BROKE INTO MY OWN HOUSE
Five nights later, Preston attended a charity dinner thirty miles away.
Sabine went with him.
Quade confirmed it.
My mother thought I was at the cottage asleep.
