Blake rushed over from his position by the door, his concern appearing genuine, or at least well-acted. Skylar, what’s happening? Are you having an allergic reaction? Hospital, she wheezed, her breathing becoming increasingly labored. Need to go to the hospital.
Now. As we rushed to prepare for the emergency room, Skylar leaning heavily on Blake while making appropriately distressed noises, one thought kept repeating in my mind, that coffee had been meant for me. Which meant my loving daughter-in-law had just poisoned herself with her own murder weapon.
The irony was so perfect it almost made me smile. The ride to Mercy General Hospital felt like a scene from a medical drama, complete with Skylar’s increasingly theatrical symptoms and Blake’s perfectly calibrated concern. I sat in the back seat, watching this performance unfold, and marveled at the precision of their act.
Skylar’s breathing had become labored and raspy, her skin was flushed and blotchy, and she was clutching her throat like she was fighting for every breath. If I had known better, I would have been genuinely worried about her condition. But knowing what I knew about the coffee’s intended target, I found myself studying her symptoms with clinical detachment.
How are you feeling, sweetheart? Blake asked for the third time in ten minutes, his voice pitched perfectly between concern and panic. Just hold on, we’re almost there. Burns, Skylar managed to gasp between coughing fits.
Throat burning. Cyanide poisoning, I realized. The almond smell.
The respiratory distress. The burning sensation. Someone had done their homework.
Cyanide was fast-acting, difficult to detect without specific tests, and would cause exactly the symptoms Skylar was experiencing. If she’d given me the full dose intended for my body weight, I would likely be dead by now. The emergency room at Mercy General was controlled chaos, with the usual mix of genuine emergencies and hypochondriacs that made Tria such an art form.
But Skylar’s condition was dramatic enough to get immediate attention. We need help. Blake called out as we entered, supporting his wife, who was now making choking sounds that would have been alarming if they weren’t so perfectly timed.
My wife can’t breathe. The medical team responded with impressive efficiency. Within minutes, Skylar was on a hooked up to monitors and surrounded by nurses taking vitals and asking rapid-fire questions.
When did the symptoms start? Dr. Amanda Rodriguez asked, clipboard in hand and stethoscope around her neck. About 30 minutes ago, Blake answered, playing the role of concerned husband to perfection. She was fine this morning, then suddenly started coughing and having trouble breathing.
Any known allergies? Medications? Recent changes in diet or environment? Nothing, Blake said. She’s always been perfectly healthy. I watched this exchange with growing fascination.
Blake was answering all the questions smoothly, never hesitating, never appearing uncertain. Either he was remarkably calm under pressure, or he’d prepared for exactly this scenario. Mrs. Morrison, Dr. Rodriguez addressed Skylar directly.
Can you tell me what you were doing just before the symptoms started? Coffee, Skylar whispered, her voice barely audible. Having coffee with, her eyes found mine across the small examination area. With her.
The way she said, her, carried an unmistakable note of accusation. Even in her supposedly weakened state, Skylar was already laying the groundwork for what was to come. Dr. Rodriguez followed Skylar’s gaze to me.
Are you family? I’m her mother-in-law, I said. We were having morning coffee when she became ill. Did you both drink the same coffee? Similar.
I said carefully. Skylar prepared it. Two cups from the same pot.
Dr. Rodriguez made notes on her clipboard, and I could see the wheels turning in her medical mind. Food poisoning was always a possibility when multiple people consumed the same substance, but only one person getting sick suggested either an allergic reaction or something more sinister. We’re going to run some blood tests, Dr. Rodriguez announced.
In the meantime, let’s get you on oxygen and see if we can make you more comfortable. As the medical team worked on Skylar, Blake turned to me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. Mom, I’m going to run home and get some of her things.
Pajamas, medications, you know how hospitals are. Of course, sweetheart, I said, patting his arm. Take your time.
It was interesting how quickly Blake was leaving, especially when his wife was potentially fighting for her life. Either he was remarkably trusting of the medical staff, or he had somewhere else he needed to be urgently. I settled into the uncomfortable plastic chair in the waiting area, surrounded by the familiar sounds of medical emergencies and human suffering.
The magazines were outdated, the coffee was terrible, and the fluorescent lighting made everyone look slightly dead. It was the perfect setting for contemplating attempted murder. Three hours later, Blake returned with an overnight bag, looking appropriately exhausted and worried.
His timing was impeccable. He walked through the door just as DR. Rodriguez emerged from the treatment area with news. We found traces of cyanide in her bloodstream, Dr. Rodriguez announced with clinical precision.
This appears to be deliberate poisoning. I’m required by law to contact the authorities. Cyanide.
The word hung in the air like an accusation. Blake’s face went pale, and he grabbed my arm as if seeking support. Poisoning, he repeated, his voice cracking with what sounded like genuine shock.
But how? Who would do something like that? Before Dr. Rodriguez could answer, Schuyler’s voice rang out from behind the curtain, weak but remarkably clear for someone who’d been at death’s door. She did it, Schuyler said, her finger pointing directly at me when the curtain was pulled back. Colleen poisoned my coffee.
She tried to kill me. The accusation hit the room like a bomb. Dr. Rodriguez stared at me with a mixture of shock and suspicion, while Blake looked like he’d been slapped.
That’s impossible, Blake said, but his voice lacked conviction. Mom would never. She made the coffee herself, Schuyler continued, her voice getting stronger with each word.
She handed it to me personally. She watched me drink it. Well, that was gratitude for you.
Here I’d inadvertently saved her life by switching cups, and she was repaying the favor by trying to frame me for attempted murder. The irony was delicious, even if the consequences were likely to be serious. Detective James Morrison arrived at the hospital within 30 minutes of Dr. Rodriguez’s call, which suggested that attempted murder cases received priority attention in our quiet Texas town.
He was younger than I’d expected, maybe early 40s, with the kind of sharp eyes that missed nothing and the patient demeanor of someone who’d heard every lie in the book. Mrs. Princewill, Detective Morrison said, introducing himself with a firm handshake. I understand there’s been an incident involving poisoning.
I’d like to speak with you privately, if that’s all right. We moved to a small consultation room down the hall from where Schuyler was still receiving treatment. The room was sterile and windowless, designed for delivering bad news and uncomfortable conversations.
I want to be clear from the start, Detective Morrison began, opening his notebook. You’re not under arrest, and you’re free to leave at any time, but I need to understand what happened here today. I told him exactly what had occurred, the strange smell in the coffee, my instinct to switch the cups, Schuyler drinking what was originally meant for me.
I kept my explanation factual and straightforward, the way I taught witnesses to testify during my years as a prosecutor. Mrs. Princewill, Detective Morrison said when I finished, if you suspected the coffee was dangerous, why didn’t you simply refuse to drink it or warn Mrs. Morrison? It was the logical question, and one I’d been preparing to answer since the moment Schuyler started coughing. I wasn’t completely certain something was wrong, I said.
It was more of an instinct than a concrete suspicion. I thought switching the cups would be a way to test my concerns without creating unnecessary drama if I was wrong. And when Mrs. Morrison became ill, I realized my instinct had been correct.
Someone had tried to poison me, and Schuyler had accidentally become the victim instead. Detective Morrison made careful notes, his expression revealing nothing about whether he believed my story. Who else knew you were having coffee this morning? Only Blake and Schuyler.
It was a spur-of-the-moment visit. Had you been experiencing any threats lately? Anyone who might want to harm you? I thought about Blake’s desperate request for money and his angry departure two days earlier, but something held me back from mentioning it. Whatever my son was involved in, I wanted to understand it fully before involving the police.
Nothing specific, I said. When you have significant wealth, you’re always aware that some people might see you as a target. When Detective Morrison interviewed Blake, I could hear the conversation through the thin walls of the consultation room.
My son’s responses sent chills down my spine. My mother’s been acting strange lately, Blake said, his voice carrying clearly through the wall. I mean, I don’t think she’d actually hurt anyone, but she’s been more paranoid than usual.
Suspicious of everyone. In what way? Just little things. Asking a lot of questions about Schuyler’s background, making comments about gold diggers and people who marry for money.
I thought it was just normal mother-in-law stuff, but no. The doubt in Blake’s voice was unmistakable. My own son was throwing me under the bus, creating reasonable doubt about my mental state and suggesting I might be capable of poisoning his wife.