A nurse from WakeMed called mid-morning, her voice clipped and professional. Eleanor’s condition hadn’t improved. They’d moved her to intensive care, still no diagnosis, though they were running more tests. Margaret didn’t mention the cookies, though the thought burned in her mind. She sat in the kitchen, a cold cup of tea in her hands, its surface clouded with neglect. She waited for Abigail’s call, the house creaking around her like it was holding its breath. Every sound—the hum of the fridge, the drip of the faucet—felt amplified, as if the house itself was listening.
When the phone rang just after noon, she startled, nearly knocking over the tea.
— It’s Abigail, the voice said, steady but urgent. We ran the standard panels, then went deeper. There’s something in the cookie—a compound tied to aconite, also called wolfsbane. Highly toxic, Margaret. Not something you’d find in food by accident.
Margaret closed her eyes, her breath catching.
— You said someone ate these? Abigail asked, her voice softer now, tinged with concern.
Margaret couldn’t answer, her throat too tight to form words.
— I’ll write it up, Abigail said after a pause. Discreetly, like you asked. But you need to be careful.
After they hung up, Margaret sat frozen, her hands still wrapped around the cold mug. Her son had sent her poison, wrapped in a navy ribbon, disguised as a gesture of reconciliation. A box she’d passed on to Eleanor without a second thought, as if it were nothing more than a neighborly gift. That evening, she paced the front walkway, the air cool and heavy with the scent of cedar and damp earth. Her phone buzzed in her pocket—an unknown number.
— This is Detective Lucas Bennett, the voice said, calm and clipped, with the faint drawl of a lifelong Carolinian. Are you Margaret Sullivan?
— Yes, she said, her voice steady despite the knot in her chest.
— Dr. Carter referred me. She said you requested toxicology analysis on a food item and asked that concerning results be reported to authorities. Is that correct?
— That’s correct, Margaret said, her heart thudding.
— Would you be willing to meet to discuss the results and any concerns you might have?
They met that afternoon in a small office at the Raleigh police station, a plain room with fluorescent lights and a single window overlooking a parking lot. Bennett was younger than she’d expected, mid-thirties, with sharp green eyes that seemed to see more than they let on. He offered her water, which she declined, her hands too restless to hold anything. She twisted a tissue she hadn’t realized she’d brought, folding and unfolding it as she spoke.
— How long have you been estranged from Nathan? Bennett asked, his pen poised over a yellow legal pad.
— Three years, she said, her voice measured as she recounted the package, the cookies, Eleanor’s collapse, the bottle in the trash. She described Nathan’s call, the sharpness in his voice, the way he’d said only you. She kept her tone even, pushing down the grief that threatened to spill over like water from a cracked glass.
— Do you believe your son intended to harm you? Bennett asked, his tone neutral but his eyes searching.
— I don’t want to believe it, she said, looking down at her hands, the tissue now a crumpled mess. But the cookie was poisoned. I didn’t bake it. Eleanor didn’t. He sent it. And the bottle in the trash—it wasn’t mine. The timing fits.
— Any reason he’d want to harm you? Financial gain, personal grudges?
— He’s always resented me, she said, her voice catching on the words. Blames me for things I couldn’t control—his father walking out when he was six, maybe, or the way I raised him, always trying to keep up with his demands, his need for everything to be just so.
Bennett nodded, his expression unreadable, though she caught a flicker of doubt in his eyes. All she had was a poisoned cookie, a mysterious bottle, and a feeling in her gut that refused to quiet. No fingerprints. No witnesses. No confession.
— Would you be willing to submit the cookie and the bottle as evidence? Open a formal case? Bennett asked, leaning forward slightly.
She hesitated, the weight of betrayal pressing against her chest. It felt like signing away the last threads of what had once been her family.
— Yes, she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. If he’s done this before, or might again, I can’t let that go.
He stood, signaling the end of the meeting.
— We’ll log the items and keep you updated. Call me directly if anything changes.
She drove home as the sky darkened, the first stars appearing above the pines. In her car, she locked the doors out of habit and sat, hands gripping the steering wheel, feeling not guilt, but something older, deeper—the ache of a mother who’d packed lunches for a boy who’d grown into a man she didn’t recognize. That night, she left the hall light on, every creak in the house pulling her upright, her eyes scanning the shadows.
By morning, she’d made a decision. She would see Nathan, not as his mother, but as the woman he’d underestimated. She slipped a small digital recorder into her coat pocket, its weight a quiet reassurance, and drove to his house on the other side of town, a modern split-level with a manicured lawn that looked too perfect to be real.
Nathan answered the door, his smile tight, his frame thinner than she remembered, like something vital had been carved out of him over the years. His dark hair was neatly combed, but his eyes were shadowed, wary.
— Mom, he said, stepping aside to let her in. This is a surprise.
— I heard about Eleanor, she said, forcing a smile that felt like a mask. I wanted to check in, see how she’s doing.
— She’s still at WakeMed, he said, gesturing her into the living room. Sarah’s with her. They think it’s some kind of virus.
She nodded, keeping her tone light, though her heart was pounding.
— I’m sorry we didn’t talk more the other day. The cookies were beautiful.
— Were they? he asked, an eyebrow raised, his voice carrying a faint challenge.
— I didn’t try them, she said, watching his face closely. Eleanor loved them. Said the star-shaped one was her favorite.
A flicker crossed his eyes, quick but unmistakable, like a crack in a mirror.
— Eleanor picked the stars, he said, his voice soft, almost too soft.
She hadn’t mentioned the shape. The recorder in her pocket hummed silently, capturing every word.
— Yes, she said slowly, her eyes locked on his. She told me.
He turned to the sink in the kitchen, rinsing a glass that was already clean, his movements deliberate.
— She always loved pretty things, he said, his tone light but strained. Always cared more about how they looked than what was underneath.
— You never told me you’d started baking, she said, studying the tension in his shoulders.
— New hobby, he said with a laugh that sounded hollow, like wind through an empty house. Good way to relax.
— Where’d you learn to use wolfsbane?
He froze, a subtle shift in his posture, like a wire pulled taut. The glass in his hand stopped moving.
— I don’t know what that is, he said, too quickly, his voice flat.
— Dr. Carter does, she said, keeping her tone even. She ran the test. It was in the cookie, Nathan.
He set the glass down with deliberate care, his fingers lingering on its edge.
— I don’t know what you think you’re doing, he said, his voice low, dangerous. But accusations like that don’t hold up without proof.
— I think you’ve already given me enough, she said quietly, her heart racing but her voice steady. You slipped up.
He stared at her, his eyes cold, calculating, like a chess player sizing up an opponent.
— You’ve always misunderstood me, he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
— No, she said, meeting his gaze. I think I finally see you clearly.
She reached for her purse, her hand steady despite the thudding in her chest. As she turned to leave, her eyes caught on the counter behind him—a small bottle, identical to the one in her trash, half-hidden under a dish towel. Nathan shifted, casually blocking her view, his body language too smooth, too practiced.