PART 3
The doctor looked at him.
“That’s what we’re trying to determine.”
I stepped closer to Emma.
She looked so small beneath the white hospital blanket.
Her eyelashes rested against her cheeks. Her lips were dry. There was a tiny scrape near her elbow from where she had fallen at school.
I wanted to touch her.
I wanted to pick her up and carry her home.
But I couldn’t.
Because suddenly our house didn’t feel like home anymore.
It felt like a crime scene.
“What substance?” I asked.
The doctor hesitated.
“We’re not ready to say exactly what caused this until the confirmatory test comes back. But it’s consistent with exposure to a sedating medication that isn’t prescribed to Emma.”
My eyes immediately went to Michael.
He noticed.
His expression changed.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
The doctor raised one hand.
“Please. This isn’t the time to accuse each other.”
Michael looked away.
I stared at my daughter’s face.
Something was wrong.
Something had been wrong for weeks.
The headaches.
The exhaustion.
Her lack of appetite.
The little moments I had dismissed.
I suddenly remembered one evening three weeks earlier when Emma had fallen asleep at the dinner table.
I had laughed gently and told her she must have had a long day.
She had whispered, “I’m just tired, Mom.”
Another memory surfaced.
A Saturday morning.
Emma standing in the kitchen, staring at her cereal without eating.
“You okay?”
She had nodded.
Then she’d asked me something strange.
“Mom, can medicine make someone forget things?”
At the time, I’d assumed she’d seen something on television.
I had answered casually.
“Some medicines can make people sleepy, but why?”
She had shrugged.
“Just wondering.”
I felt sick.
Why hadn’t I asked again?
Why hadn’t I taken her seriously?
I turned toward the doctor.
“How long could something like this have been in her system?”
“It’s impossible to say until we have more results.”
“Could she have been exposed more than once?”
The doctor looked at me.
“Yes.”
Michael suddenly stepped forward.
“Doctor, could this have happened accidentally?”
“It could.”
“What about something at school?”
“Possible.”
“What about food?”
“Possible.”
“Then why police?”
“Because we cannot assume this was accidental.”
The room fell silent.
A moment later, two uniformed officers appeared outside the room.
One was a woman in her forties with dark hair pulled into a tight ponytail.
The other was younger.
They introduced themselves as Detective Harris and Officer Lee.
Detective Harris entered first.
“Mrs. Johnson? Mr. Johnson?”
I nodded.
“We need to ask you some questions.”
“My daughter is unconscious.”
“I understand.”
“She hasn’t done anything wrong.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you here?”
The detective’s expression softened.
“Because somebody may have done something to her.”
That sentence hit me harder than anything the doctor had said.
Somebody.
Not something.
Somebody.
I looked at Michael.
He was staring at the floor.
Detective Harris noticed.
“Mr. Johnson, when was the last time you saw Emma before today?”
“This morning.”
“What time?”
“About seven.”
“Did she eat breakfast?”
“Yes.”
“What did she have?”
“Cereal.”
“What kind?”
Michael frowned.
“Just cereal.”
I turned toward him.
“Chocolate cereal.”
He looked at me.
“What?”
“She had chocolate cereal.”
He blinked.
“Right.”
Detective Harris wrote something down.
“Did you prepare it?”
“I did,” I answered.
“Did anyone else have access to the kitchen?”
I stared at her.
“My husband.”
Michael’s jaw tightened.
“Anyone else?”
“No.”
“Housekeeper?”
“No.”
“Family?”
“No.”
“Friends?”
“No.”
She nodded.
“Mrs. Johnson, has Emma been taking any medication recently?”
“No.”
“Vitamins?”
“Just a children’s multivitamin.”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
“Painkillers? Allergy medicine? Sleep aids?”
“No.”
Detective Harris looked at Michael.
“And you?”
Michael shook his head.
“No medication.”
I almost corrected him.
Because there was something he hadn’t mentioned.
Michael had been taking sleeping tablets for months.
I knew because I had found the bottle in our bathroom cabinet.
He’d told me his doctor prescribed them during a stressful period at work.
I hadn’t thought much of it.
But now I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
“Michael,” I said quietly.
He looked at me.
“You take sleep medication.”
His face changed.
Detective Harris noticed immediately.
“What medication?”
Michael swallowed.
“It’s prescribed.”
“What is the name?”
“Zolpidem.”
The detective wrote it down.
“Where is it kept?”
“At home.”
“Is it accessible to Emma?”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“You keep it in the bathroom.”
“I keep it in the cabinet.”
“The cabinet isn’t locked.”
Michael’s eyes narrowed.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Making it sound like I gave something to our daughter.”
“I didn’t accuse you.”
“You’re looking at me like I did.”
I felt something inside me snap.
“Because someone put something in our daughter’s body!”
The monitor suddenly beeped faster.
A nurse rushed in.
“Please keep your voices down.”
We both stopped.
The detective stepped between us.
“Enough.”
She looked at me.
“Mrs. Johnson, I need you to take a breath.”
I did.
Or tried to.
Then I heard a weak voice.
“Mom?”
I spun around.
Emma’s eyes were open.
“Emma!”
I rushed to her side.
“I’m here, sweetheart.”
Her eyes moved slowly toward me.
“Where am I?”
“The hospital.”
She frowned.
“I don’t remember.”
My heart broke.
“It’s okay. You’re safe.”
She looked past me.
Then her eyes landed on Michael.
Something strange happened.
Emma froze.
Not dramatically.
Not obviously.
Just a tiny change.
Her fingers tightened around the blanket.
Michael noticed.
“So does she know what happened?” he asked.
Emma didn’t answer.
I leaned closer.
“Sweetheart, can you tell me what you remember?”
She looked at me.
“I was in math.”
“Okay.”
“Mrs. Carter was talking.”
“Then what?”
Emma’s eyes filled with tears.
“I felt dizzy.”
“What happened next?”
“I heard someone call my name.”
“Who?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you remember going to the nurse?”
“No.”
“Do you remember eating lunch?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
“What did you eat?”
“My sandwich.”
“Did you eat anything else?”
She shook her head.
“Someone gave me something.”
Every adult in the room became still.
“What?”
Emma looked frightened.
“I don’t know.”
“Who gave you something?”
Her eyes moved toward the door.
“I don’t know.”
I touched her forehead.
“It’s okay. You can tell us.”
She swallowed.
Then she whispered:
“It was in my water.”
My blood ran cold.
“What water?”
“My bottle.”
I looked at Michael.
Then at the detective.
“Who gave you the water?”
Emma’s lips trembled.
“A man.”
The room seemed to shrink.
“What man?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you know him?”
She shook her head.
“What did he look like?”
Emma squeezed her eyes shut.
“He had a blue jacket.”
Detective Harris immediately began writing.
“Anything else?”
Emma thought.
“He smelled like Dad.”
Michael suddenly went completely still.
I turned toward him.
“What does that mean?”
Emma opened her eyes.
“He smelled like Dad’s cologne.”
Michael’s face drained of color.
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
Detective Harris looked at him.
“Mr. Johnson, what cologne do you wear?”
Michael didn’t answer.
I did.
“Cedar and smoke.”
Detective Harris wrote it down.
Emma began crying.
“I didn’t want to drink it.”
I leaned over her.
“You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”
But she grabbed my wrist.
“No, Mom.”
Her fingers were surprisingly strong.
“Don’t tell Daddy.”
Michael stared at her.
“Emma…”
She shook her head violently.
“Don’t tell Daddy.”
I felt something inside me collapse.
Detective Harris immediately stepped closer.
“Emma, why don’t you want your father to know?”
Emma looked at me.
Then at Michael.
Her eyes filled with terror.
“He told me not to tell you.”
Michael took one step backward.
“What?”
“He told me…”
Emma’s voice became tiny.
“If I told Mom about the man, he’d take you away.”
Nobody spoke.
I couldn’t breathe.
Michael stared at our daughter as if he’d never seen her before.
