Page 136 of Her Ex-Husband's Brother

Puts the tin away behind the cleaning supplies and washes his hands.

The video goes long enough for him to start the coffee maker and call down the hallway in the voice that used to make me feel safe: “Baby? I’m making your coffee.”

Officer Treviño lifts her eyes from the phone.

The night seems to hold its breath.

“It’s not what it looks like—” Jake starts to say, but I interrupt him.

“My hair is falling out,” I say.

I run my fingers through my hair and feel it give.

That is the only word for it.

Give.

A clump is left in my hand when I pull it away.

She reaches for the clip at her shoulder. “Dispatch, check status on EMS. We’ve got a female patient symptomatic from possible toxic exposure. Need medics expedited.”

Which is really, really good timing. Because right at that moment, all my determination to stay on my feet runs out, like the adrenaline push is over now that someone’s listened to me.

“Make sure the hospital runs tests,” I say, and then I collapse right where I’m standing.

Right before I hit the ground, with August screaming my name in the background, I have the thought?—

Huh, well at least before I die, for once I got to stand right where I belonged: in the center of my own story.

And then the world goes dark.

THIRTY-FIVE

AUGUST

“Daddy!”

I look up to see my son sprinting on his little legs down the hospital corridor toward me, Priscilla following at a normal pace behind.

It’s only the sight of him that gives me the strength to pull my head from where I’m crouched over with it in my hands, where I’ve been for the last two days waiting for any real news of Lennon.

She’s been in the ICU getting her system flushed and treatments for thallium poisoning, specifically. It’s a toxic, heavy metal that would have eventually killed her. It was only because he dosed her occasionally that she lived this long. But if she’d even finished that second tin of coffee in a row, it might have been her last.

I’ve been haunted by the doctor’s words that first night: “We can get the poison out of her. What we can’t tell you yet is how much damage it’s already done.”

When I asked what he meant, he said she might have lasting nerve pain and peripheral numbness, especially in her feet, that might make her walk clumsily. The hair loss could take months to recover. She might have difficulty sleeping, and none of this is to account for the psychological effects of someone you love and trustpoisoningyou?—

Owen reaches me and hurtles himself up into my arms.

I catch him because that’s what you do when a four-year-old missiles himself at you.

And then I clutch him to my chest and breathe in the sweetness of his hair because he is everything good and right in this goddamn universe. He almost immediately gets squirmy, giggling.

“Dad!” he screeches. “Lemme go!”

I kiss him on the mop of his hair before I do. “Good to see you, buddy,” I whisper before releasing him.

Priscilla has reached us by this point, along with a giant tote bag she brings when going anywhere with Owen. She pulls out a stack of coloring books and his box of Crayolas. She tugs over one of the small tables and gets him set up.