Chapter 4 - David’s Divided Loyalty
By three in the morning, the sterile air of the hospital had turned sour. Madison had been transferred to a private recovery room on the fourth floor, heavily sedated with morphine, her face the color of parchment against the white cotton pillows.
David sat in the armchair beside her bed, his head buried in his hands. The blood on his sleeves had dried into stiff, brown crusts. I sat across the room, my coat draped over my shoulders, watching him.
"You need to change your shirt, David," I said softly.
He didn't look up. "How did this happen, Clara? How could this happen to my family?"
"Families don't bleed like this without a reason," I replied. "Your mother accused me tonight. Did you believe her?"
David finally lifted his head. His eyes were red-rimmed, hollow, bearing the terrifying weakness of a man who had never been forced to cut his own umbilical cord. "My mother is distraught. She says things when she's terrified. But... Clara, why did she say you swapped the bowls? Why would she even think that?"
"Because she knew which bowl had the poison," I said without flinching.
David frowned, shaking his head in immediate, violent denial. "Don't say that. Don't you dare say that about my mother. She’s overbearing, she’s dramatic, but she wouldn't poison anyone! That's insane!"
"Then why did she refuse to call the police?" I challenged him, standing up and walking toward the window overlooking the wet city streets. "Why did she panic when I suggested forensic testing on the kitchen? If she truly believed I tried to murder her daughter, she would have had me in handcuffs within twenty minutes. But she didn't call 911, David. You did. She called me a monster, but she kept her mouth shut when the doctors mentioned toxicology."
David stood up, his jaw clenching. "Stop it! Just stop! My sister just lost her child! Can you show an ounce of compassion? Can you stop making this about your petty war with my mother?"
The door clicked open, saving him from the truth he was too cowardly to face. Eleanor slipped into the room, carrying a paper cup of bitter hospital coffee. She looked diminished, yet the malevolent gleam in her eyes was far from extinguished. She had spent the last two hours on her phone in the corridor, undoubtedly orchestrating a cover-up.
"She’s sleeping," Eleanor murmured, casting a mournful look at Madison before glaring at me. "David, darling, you look exhausted. Go home and shower. Take Clara with you. I will stay here with my poor angel."
"I'm not leaving you alone, Mom," David said, his voice cracking.
"You need to rest, sweetheart. Both of you," Eleanor insisted, her tone sickly sweet, coated in layers of artificial maternal tenderness. "We have a long road ahead. We need our strength."
She wanted us gone. She needed the house empty. Or worse, she needed time to sanitize the crime scene.
"No," I said, meeting her gaze dead-on. "David can go home. I’m staying right here. In fact, I’m going to wait until the lab results come back. The police will need a statement from everyone who was in that kitchen, Eleanor. I want to make sure I’m available the second the detectives arrive."
Eleanor’s jaw twitched. A tiny vein pulsed violently against her left temple. "There are no detectives, Clara. The doctor agreed it could have been an acute immunological reaction. We don't need to drag the police into our private grief."
"Is that what you told the doctor?" I smiled, cold and sharp. "Funny. When he spoke to me in the hallway ten minutes ago, he said the state requires an automatic inquiry when acute chemical trauma causes fetal demise."
It was a bluff. A dangerous, calculated lie.
Eleanor dropped her coffee cup. The dark liquid splashed across her beige leather shoes, but she didn't even look down. The terror in her eyes was absolute. She turned to David, her voice pitching up into a frantic whine. "David! Tell your wife to leave! She’s tormenting me! She’s standing over Madison like a vulture!"
"Clara, please," David pleaded, entirely broken, stepping between us. "Just go home. Please."
I looked at my husband—this hollow shell of a man who would rather let his wife be branded a murderer than face the reality of his monstrous mother.
"I’ll go," I said calmly, picking up my purse. "I’ll go back to your mother’s house. I’ll make sure everything in that kitchen is left exactly as it was. Untouched."
The color drained from Eleanor’s face entirely. "You stay away from my house!"
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"Why, Eleanor?" I paused at the doorway, looking back over my shoulder with a predator's calm. "Are there things there you haven't had time to throw away yet?"
***
