Chapter 33
Thirty-Three
I watch as water dissolves the mini marshmallows in the colander over the sink. What doesn’t dissolve is the pecans, pineapple,
and glass.
So much glass.
Glass that wasn’t there when I was mixing up the ingredients a few hours ago. I pick up a piece and hold it to the light.
There are no marks or labels to give me a hint of its origin. It could be a drinking glass, wineglass, window glass. I have
no clue where it could have come from.
“I take it back,” Miles says, gazing down at the pecans, pineapple, and glass in the colander. “I love diabetes. It’s my favorite
thing in the world now.”
“You think this is funny?” I snap. He holds up his hands in defense.
“I don’t. And I think you know me well enough by now that that question is being asked in bad faith, so I’m going to assume
this is you freaking out.”
He assumes correctly. “Sorry,” I say.
Marcus and Valencia drove Gramma Sharon to the hospital, leaving all the food and supplies for the barbecue. So Miles and
I cleaned up what we could and put it in the fridge. But I wanted to see how much glass was in the Watergate salad. Turns
out, it’s a lot.
When I look at the glassware in the cabinets, it’s all accounted for.
“Where did it come from?” I ask. Honestly, I think I’m still in shock. The paint, the flowers, the gas—all that could be logicked
away if I tried hard enough, but not this. This was deliberate.
Miles goes over to the recycling and pulls out the rinsed can of crushed pineapple, turning it around in his hand and looking
inside. “No chance it was a factory error?”
I look back down at the glass in the sink. It’s not possible. I could pick up all the glass and put it in the can and it would
probably overflow. I don’t even think there’d be enough space for the pineapple.
When I tell Miles that, he drops the can back into the recycling bin. “I don’t want to state the obvious, but Marcus was alone
with the salad.”
He’s right. He brought it out to us. And he said I had to eat it if I was making it for Gramma Sharon. Then I remember Gramma
Sharon’s glass of bourbon that I dumped in the sink.
“Valencia was, too. Why hurt her mother, though?” I ask. “If I’m the target, why put glass in something they knew she would
eat?”
“Because whoever it is isn’t trying to hurt you. They’re trying to expose you. If they . . . you know—” He looks around the
empty kitchen, probably making sure Easton and JT haven’t ventured inside. Miles makes a cutting action at his throat. “—Nate,
and they’re trying to keep the life insurance money, they’d probably want to expose you as quick as possible. And if it’s
a psychopath we’re dealing with, yeah, they wouldn’t care who got hurt along the way. Least of all their mother-in-law.”
The doorbells rings, and Miles and I share a look.
“Were you expecting anyone else?” he asks.
I shake my head and go to the front door, Miles following closely behind. I don’t realize until I’m already opening the door
that I could have checked the doorbell camera app instead, but it’s too late now.
There, standing on the front porch, is retired Agent Grant. He’s still in a suit. And still has that grim look on his face.
I freeze. I don’t know what to even say. Mainly because I have no clue what he’s doing here. But the timing is certainly odd,
what with the sink full of Watergate glass salad in the kitchen behind us.
“Hi,” I finally manage. “Can we help you?”
“Nate.” But again he says the name with suspicion. “Are your parents home?”
“No.”
“Where are they?” he asks.
“They had to run out.”
“Where?”
All the alarms in my head are telling me not to answer. “What do you need, Agent Grant?”
He finally gives up the act and his eyes flit over to Miles, then back to me. “I have a friend who’s a nurse at Shore Medical.
Said your parents brought your grandmother in with some pretty substantial injuries.”
“Uh.” Miles steps forward. “Not to be mouthy, but doesn’t that violate HIPAA laws?”
“Not when she didn’t tell me what the substantial injuries are. Just that she came in. I decided I’d check to see if everything
was okay here. Since I’m close with the family.”
“Then why weren’t you at the barbecue?” I ask. When he doesn’t answer, I finally try to end the conversation. “She ate canned pineapple tainted with something from the factory. She hurt her mouth.”
He nods slowly.
“Anything else?” I ask.
“Is there?” Agent Grant replies.
Miles puts up his hand. “Actually, I have something. Forgive me for being so forward, but would you be open to coming on my
podcast?” Agent Grant’s eyes flick from Miles to over my shoulder. I turn and see Easton walking out from the kitchen. He
looks pissed. Miles continues. “I think you’d be an iconic guest.”
“What are you doing here?” Easton asks.
“I heard about your grandmother. I wanted to make sure everything is okay.”
“Then go to the hospital, where she is.” Easton steps in front of me, blocking my view of Agent Grant. He turns to Miles.
“And Miles, I think you should go home, too.”
“Right. Okay.” He turns back to Agent Grant. “So the podcast.”
“Now, Miles.”
He nods and steps around Agent Grant. “Well, you know where I live. So . . . see you later, Nate.”
Once Miles is gone, Easton asks Agent Grant, “Anything else?” He holds out his card, but Easton doesn’t take it. “We’ve got
one somewhere. Thanks.” Then he closes the door in his face. He turns his attention back to me, shaking his head. “Hate that
guy.”
“Why?”
He walks back to the kitchen and I follow. “Who do you think started all the rumors about Mom and Dad being the ones who hurt you?”
I freeze in the doorway. “Seriously?”
Easton nods. “Guy’s a dick. He’s pissed off he isn’t good at his job, so he makes shit up to make his suspects anxious. I
don’t have proof, but he asked a lot of questions when you went missing that came back around once people started blaming
Mom and Dad.”
Maybe Grant does make things up. Like that nurse thing seemed kind of fake. I doubt a nurse would tell him someone was admitted to the hospital,
because Miles is right, even without specifics about the injury it would probably be a HIPAA violation. He might have been
outside and seen Marcus and Valencia drive past with Gramma Sharon in the back seat, a bloody dish towel to her mouth.
Easton peers into the sink. “Speaking of blame. I gotta ask.” He narrows his eyes at me. “You didn’t do it on purpose, right?”
“No.” I open the cabinets. “Look, the glasses are all here.”
He points to an empty spot, and I shake my head and open the dishwasher to show him where the dirty glass is.
“Could have come from somewhere else.” He goes into the fridge and gets out the jar of peanut butter.
My voice is verging on shrill. “I didn’t put glass in the Watergate salad! I was going to eat it, too!”
“Okay, so you didn’t do it,” he says. “I was half joking, but happy to know you’re not a total psycho.” I watch him grab a
spoon and take another huge glob of peanut butter from the jar.
“So what do you think?” I ask. “Where did the glass come from?”
He shrugs. “The factory. Maybe a light broke over the conveyor belt where they chopped up your pineapples or whipped the Cool Whip and you didn’t notice when you were mixing it.” His eyes go wide and he laughs. “Dad’s gonna sue the shit out of them.”
“It wasn’t the factory, Easton. I poured out all the ingredients myself, and I didn’t see any glass.”
He stares at me, looking nervous. “So then who did it?”
“Who do you think?” I ask. I don’t mean to sound accusatory, but I genuinely want to know. Easton shakes his head.
“Mom and Dad would never do that.”
Before we can say anything else, the door out to the garage opens and I turn to see Valencia and Marcus. She looks worried
and exhausted; his expression is almost unreadable.
Easton goes over to them and Valencia hugs him. “Is Gramma okay?”
Valencia nods and I feel a tiny bit of relief. Then she comes over and gives me a hug and a kiss on the cheek, too.
“She has some deep lacerations in her mouth,” Marcus says. “A couple stitches on the tongue, cauterized the gums. She’ll need
to stick to a liquid diet for a few weeks. And they’re keeping her overnight for observation to make sure she didn’t accidentally
swallow any. But she should make a full recovery.”
He stares at me while he speaks, and I stare right back. It’s like we’re daring one another to tell the truth. Right here
in front of everyone.
“Easton, go upstairs,” Marcus says.
He shakes his head. “No, I can—”
“Now.” Marcus’s temper returns. Easton gives me an apologetic look. I nod to him, and he licks his spoon clean, drops it in the sink, and leaves the kitchen.
“How did the glass get in there, Nate?” he asks.
“Marcus.” Valencia sounds like they’ve talked about this in the car and agreed not to bring it up yet. He holds up a hand
to silence her.
“How did shards of glass get in the food you knew your grandmother would be eating?”
“You forget I had a plate of it, too.”
“And yet you didn’t eat it.”
“I didn’t get a chance to. JT showed up and—”
“HOW. DID THE GLASS. GET IN THE SALAD?”
“Why don’t you tell me!” I yell right back.
He opens his mouth to scream back, but Valencia puts up her hands and stands between us.
“Enough! Marcus, you know damn well that glass probably ended up in the can of pineapples.”
“Bullshit!” he says, throwing his arms up.
“I’m on his side, actually,” I say to Valencia. “It is bullshit because someone put it there.” I don’t know which one of them did it, but I really don’t want to believe Valencia would hurt her own mother.
Especially someone as kind as Gramma Sharon.
Marcus blinks and gives us an incredulous look. “You think I did this?”
“You brought the salad out.”
“You made it.”
“Stop it!” Valencia yells. “Marcus, do you honestly think our son is capable of doing such a thing?”
“Yes!”
When he says it, Valencia looks as if he slapped her. “I mean, maybe he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. It could be some . . .
I don’t know, fugue state he goes into. Maybe that’s what happened with the gas, and the paint, and now the glass. I’ve had
clients where that happens. It’s a trauma response.”
“I’m not crazy!” I say.
Valencia turns to me and puts her hands on my cheeks. “No one is saying you are. But, Marcus, if this were a trauma response,
would you still hold it against him?”
“I didn’t do it!”
“Stop it, Nate!” Marcus yells. “It couldn’t have been anyone else because I would never hurt Sharon.”
“Neither would I!”
“Enough!” Valencia yells. “I don’t want to hear another goddamned word out of either of you. Nate, Marcus didn’t do this.
What reason would he have?” I want to respond, but I can’t. Not without exposing myself. And across the kitchen, the look
on Marcus’s face seems to dare me to tell the truth.
“And Marcus. Other attorneys in your firm have represented people who bit into whole knives in sandwiches. So maybe it’s not that far-fetched to think a few glass jars broke on a conveyor belt in a factory.
” She reaches for the colander in the sink and rattles the glass around to show Marcus how much was in it.
“Instead of arguing, you can call the company on Monday and give them the info on the can in that recycling bin and threaten to sue the shit out of them. Watch how quick their lawyers want to settle and then you’ll see this was all a horrible accident caused by neglect. And not your son.”
Marcus clearly isn’t sold on the idea but he doesn’t say anything else.
When neither of us speaks, Valencia claps her hands. “Great. Now both of you go somewhere else.”
I go up to my room. This was way too close. I had planned to take a small amount of salad and swallow it whole, worried it
would taste gross. I could have died. And maybe Marcus would be okay with that.
Then he’d keep his life insurance and sue the canned pineapple company for wrongful death.
I take out my phone and text Miles.
We need to go to Agent Grant. Give him everything we have and see what he wants to do next. Maybe he’s got more evidence we
don’t have that can help fill in the blanks.
The answer is almost instantaneous.
Are you sure?
Am I? No. But do you have any other ideas?
This time there’s a long pause between texts.
Then Miles responds. I guess not. Okay. It’s time to come clean.