The next morning, as she poured her second cup of coffee, the phone rang, its shrill tone cutting through the quiet. The number on the screen stopped her cold—Nathan. Her hand hovered over the phone, the air thick with hesitation, before she finally picked it up.
— Hello? Hi, Mom? Nathan’s voice was smooth, almost too casual, as if the years of silence were a minor oversight, a forgotten errand.
— Happy birthday. A day late, I know.
— Nathan, she said, sitting slowly, clutching the mug with both hands to steady herself. I got your package.
— Yeah, he said, a soft chuckle threading through his words. I wasn’t sure you’d open it, honestly.
— I did. It was… unexpected.
There was a pause, a beat too long, before he asked, his tone light but probing,
— So, how were they? The cookies, I mean.
She took a breath, steadying herself.
— I didn’t eat them. I gave them to Eleanor.
The line went silent, so still she checked the screen to see if the call had dropped. It hadn’t.
— You… gave them to Eleanor, Nathan said, his voice sharpening, the warmth evaporating like mist.
— Yes, she said carefully, her heart beginning to race. She loves sweets, and I… I didn’t know what to do with them.
He didn’t respond for a long moment. She could hear his breathing, tight and uneven, like a machine struggling to start. Then, quietly at first, but with a rising edge,
— You did what?
The words landed like a slap. Margaret blinked, stunned, her grip tightening on the mug.
— Nathan, what’s wrong?
— They weren’t for her, he snapped, his voice raw. They were for you. Only you.
The crack in his voice wasn’t sorrow—it was something else, something sharp and jagged. Frustration, maybe panic. She couldn’t tell.
— I didn’t know, she said, her voice small, barely audible.
— Right. Of course you didn’t, he said, the bitterness thick, choking the air between them. You never do.
The call ended abruptly, the dial tone buzzing in her ear like an insect. She set the phone down, her heart thudding—not fast, but deep, like it was trying to carve its way out. Only you, he’d said. The words echoed, heavy with meaning she couldn’t yet grasp. She walked to the fridge, opened it, and stared at the single cookie in its container, its silver sugar gleaming faintly in the light. A chill settled over her, prickling her skin.
Then the landline rang, its sharp trill echoing through the hallway. Almost no one used that number anymore, its existence a relic of a time before cell phones. Dread curled in her stomach as she crossed the house to answer it.
— Margaret? It was Sarah, Nathan’s wife, her voice tight, almost brittle, like thin ice.
— Yes?
— It’s Eleanor. She’s in the hospital.
Margaret sat down hard on the hallway chair, the wood creaking under her weight.
— What happened?
— She collapsed this morning. Vomiting, disoriented. I thought it was food poisoning at first, but… it’s worse. She couldn’t stand, couldn’t think straight. The ER’s running tests, but they don’t have answers yet.
Margaret’s mouth went dry, her tongue heavy.
— Did she eat anything unusual?
A pause, long enough to make Margaret’s pulse spike.
— She mentioned cookies. Said you brought them over yesterday.
— I did, Margaret said, swallowing hard. I gave her the box Nathan sent me.
Silence stretched across the line, broken only by the faint hum of hospital sounds—beeps, footsteps, a cart rattling down a corridor.
— Do you think they could’ve made her sick? Sarah asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
— I don’t know, Margaret said, her throat tight. I didn’t eat any myself.
Another silence, heavier this time, like a stone sinking into deep water.
— If you think of anything, anything at all, you’ll tell me, right?
— Of course, Margaret whispered, her voice barely holding.
They hung up, and Margaret sat in the dimming light of the hallway, staring at the faded wallpaper. The afternoon sun had faded, leaving the house in a gray haze. She didn’t turn on the lights. She didn’t move. Her mind churned, replaying Nathan’s words, the sharp edge in his voice, the way he’d said only you. Later, after dark, she wandered into the kitchen, driven by an aimless need for order. She began cleaning—wiping down counters already spotless, folding dish towels that didn’t need folding. When she opened the trash to empty it, something caught her eye: a small, clear plastic bottle, like one for vitamins, nestled among coffee grounds and vegetable peels. No label, just a faint trace of white powder clinging to the inside. It wasn’t hers.
She reached in, her fingers brushing the cool plastic, and lifted it out, turning it in her hands. The cap was screwed on tight, the bottle light but somehow heavy with implication. Her pulse quickened, a steady drumbeat in her ears. She opened the fridge, the cookie still there in its container, untouched, like a relic from a life she no longer recognized. Her hands trembled as she lifted it out. She hadn’t meant to save it, not consciously—just a small act of preservation, a treat for later, a gesture of self-kindness. Now it felt like a warning she’d ignored.
In the study, she set the cookie and the bottle on the desk, the lamplight casting long shadows across the room. The sugar crystals on the cookie glinted faintly, almost mocking. She sat, hands folded tightly, staring at the two objects as if they might confess. Questions loomed, too large to voice aloud: Was she the target? Was this meant for her? The weight of the possibility pressed against her chest, making it hard to breathe. Later, just before bed, she called a friend, Dr. Abigail Carter, who worked at a toxicology lab downtown. Abigail owed her a favor from years ago, when Margaret had helped her through a rough patch.
— I need something tested, Margaret said, keeping her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. Quietly, please.
— I can meet you in the morning, Abigail replied, her tone professional but warm. No questions, just tell me where.
Margaret hung up and stood in the dark study, the cookie and bottle still on the desk, the dread heavier than ever. She didn’t sleep that night, Nathan’s voice looping in her mind: You did what? The words carried a weight she couldn’t shake, a sharpness that cut deeper with each repetition.
The lab was a nondescript building tucked behind a medical plaza on the outskirts of Raleigh, its beige exterior blending into the landscape. Abigail met her in the parking lot, her lab coat crisp despite the early hour, her dark hair pulled back tightly.
— This the kind of favor I’ll regret? Abigail asked, a half-smile playing on her lips as Margaret handed her the plastic container with the cookie.
— Just tell me what’s in it, Margaret said, her attempt at a smile faltering, her eyes fixed on the container.
Abigail nodded, her expression softening, and disappeared through a side door. Margaret sat in her car, the engine idling, the radio off, her hands cold despite the warm September air. Memories flooded in, unbidden and sharp—Nathan at eight, arranging his toy cars with geometric precision, each one aligned to an invisible grid; at ten, furious when she reorganized his bookshelf by author instead of height, his small face red with betrayal; at twelve, giving her the silent treatment for days after she used the wrong mustard on his sandwich, the kind he said tasted like regret. She’d called it quirks, told herself he was particular, sensitive, a straight-A student who charmed teachers and neighbors alike. But she remembered, too, the way he watched people eat, his eyes lingering on her plate with an intensity that felt wrong even then. The time she’d made brownies with pecans by mistake, and he’d spat one out, scrubbing his mouth until it bled, his small hands trembling with rage. The stillness when he was disappointed, like he was storing it for later, filing it away in some hidden ledger.