Chapter 51
Chapter Fifty-One
JULIET
The door to Frances's room swings open under my push, the wood heavy, and for just a bit, I freeze in the threshold, my heart slamming against my ribs.
The room is dim with only the bedside lamp casting a warm pool of light on the bed where she lies, still and pale, her silver hair fanned out on the pillow.
The air feels thick in here, heavy with that faint lavender from her perfume, mixed with something sharper, almost metallic.
My eyes dart to the dark mahogany bedside table where there is a glass of water half-empty, and what looks like a syringe lying beside it.
The needle glints dangerously in the lamplight.
The plunger is depressed like it's empty.
At one glance, it looks like a case of overdose, her painkiller medication, maybe, the bottle of morphine or whatever she takes for her aches sitting open nearby, but I know better.
Instinct screams in my gut that this isn't an accident or suicide.
Not Frances. She would never do that to her son, especially not during the annual charity event.
This has the real Carolyn's hand all over it.
My stomach twists, bile rising as I rush to her side, my steps heavy, panic flooding me. Poor Frances, so frail but strong. I tried not to admit it, but she started to feel like family to me. The grandmother I never had. And now she is lying here unresponsive, her chest rising slowly, too slowly.
I drop to my knees beside the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight, and shake her shoulder gently, then harder, my voice cracking as I call her name.
"Frances? Frances, wake up—please."
No response, her skin is cool and clammy under my fingers, and fear chokes me.
Tears sting my eyes as I fumble for my phone in my little clasp purse.
My fingers tremble as I dial 911, the screen blurring through the film of tears in my eyes.
When the operator answers, calm and professional, I spill it all in a rush.
"My mother-in-law is unconscious. There's a syringe. I think it’s an overdose. Please send an ambulance now."
Calmly, the operator makes me give the address.
My voice breaks on the answer when she asks if she is breathing.
“Yes, but shallow—”
“Good. Keep her airway clear. Help is on the way.”
The call ends with sirens promised in minutes.
My hand is on Frances's chest, feeling the faint rise and fall, whispering to her, "I love you, Frances.
I really have started to love you lots. Hold on, please.
Just hold on." The room feels like it is spinning. The suite’s antique furniture, the four-poster bed, the velvet drapes.
All closing in like witnesses to this nightmare.
I dial Blake next, my thumb hitting his name fast, the phone ringing once, twice, my breath hitching as I pace the room. Outside the window, the party lights twinkle like nothing's wrong.
He picks up, his voice low over the music in the background. "Carolyn? Everything okay?"
I break, words tumbling out— "Blake, it's Frances, she's unconscious, syringe on the table, I called 911, come quick."
There is a sharp, shocked intake of breath, then "I'm coming."
The line goes dead and I sink as if suddenly boneless onto the edge of the bed. I take Frances’s limp, bony hand in mine, praying that the ambulance hurries.
Minutes later, Blake rushes in, his face ashen, his tux jacket askew like he sprinted from the party. “What the fuck?” he says hoarsely, rushing towards his mother.
“Mom,” he calls desperately, and my heart breaks to see how distraught he is.
I point to the syringe, and he picks it up and looks at it with a frown. “I don’t understand.”
The paramedics show up faster than I expected; they must have just been around the corner or something, their sirens cut through the festivities like a knife, and I hear the estate's massive wrought-iron gates grinding open down below, security waving them through in a panic.
My heart's already racing, but when they burst into Frances's room with all that gear—bags slung over shoulders, radios crackling—reality hits me harder, my knees going weak as I step aside.
Their boots thump heavily on the antique rug, and they swarm around her bed like they've done this a hundred times, efficient but urgent.
One of them kneels to check her pulse while another pulls out a clear plastic oxygen mask and fits it over her pale face.
"Ma'am, step back please," the lead guy says, his voice calm but firm, glancing at me with those steady eyes that must see this kind of thing every shift. I nod, swallowing hard, my throat tight as I press against the wall.
Blake takes over answering their questions.
"What medication was it?" one paramedic asks, gloved hands working fast to start an IV, the needle glinting as he tapes it to her arm.
“I don’t know,” Blake replies, his voice shaking. He runs a hand through his hair agitatedly.
"How long ago? Any idea?"
Blake shakes his head and glances at me with desperation in those icy-gray eyes. "We don't know—she was fine earlier.”
"Allergies?
“No, none that we know of.”
The words fly back and forth, tension thick in the air, and I stand there frozen, guilt twisting in my gut like a vise, because this isn't some accident. This is Carolyn's fault, and I’m the one who let it happen. My stupid impersonation opened the door for whatever twisted plan she's had.
They lift Frances onto the stretcher, then, carefully but efficiently, the straps are clicked into place over her frail body. Then the wheels start rattling down the hall. That uneven clatter echoes in my heart. I feel it deep in my chest, like it my own heart that is being wheeled away.
It’s all my fault.
Blake squeezes my hand, his palm sweaty, and murmurs, "Come on, we'll follow.”
I can't speak. I just nod, tears blurring my vision as we trail them out. The salty chill of the ocean seeps into my bones. Franklin’s already waiting outside, the engine purring low in the driveway, and I slide into the back seat beside Blake, the leather cool and surreal.
It’s like being in a nightmare with no escape.
We peel out behind the ambulance, sirens blaring ahead of us, flashing lights cutting through the dark Hamptons roads—past the quiet estates with their manicured hedges.
Blake and I never speak. We hold hands tightly, but we never speak.
Not once. Guilt eats at me the whole way, merciless, gnawing like acid— this is on me. All of it.
We pull up to Southampton Hospital, and the emergency entrance is lit up in harsh floodlights. The kind that washes everything out in stark white. The night air has turned much colder, so cold it raises goosebumps on my arms as I hurry out of the car.
They wheel Frances in through the automatic doors, and doctors and nurses swarm her like bees—white coats flapping, voices overlapping in the controlled chaos. What will they do? Do they have an antidote for whatever Carolyn has given her?
Blake is forced to stay beside me so they can work on her.
His hand is on my lower back, steady, but tense, and we get shuffled to the waiting room.
The linoleum floor is sticky under my heels.
My black gown feels ridiculous now, swishing outrageously among the worn vinyl chairs.
To calm myself, I stand and pace back and forth, but the click of my heels sound too loud in the quiet space.
I stop and wrap my arms around myself against the sterile chill, the smell of bleach and coffee hanging heavy.
Blake sinks into a chair, head in his hands, but he looks up when a doctor finally comes out.
He’s middle-aged, a stethoscope dangling from his neck, and a clipboard in hand.
He gives us the update: she’s stable but critical, they'll monitor her overnight, watch for complications.
Relief floods into me, warm and shaky, but it's short-lived, because Blake pulls me into a hug right there and then, his arms wrapping strong around me, that familiar cologne—woody, grounding—cutting through the hospital sharpness.
"Thank God. You were great, Carolyn. I don’t know what would have happened if you had not gone to look for her," he says, voice rough against my ear.
And oh God, I want to confess everything in that moment.
The words bubbling up hot on my tongue—I'm not Carolyn, Blake, it's all a lie, the real one's back, and I’m pretty sure she must have done this to Frances. But I hesitate, fear choking me tight, squeezing my chest. I don’t have any proof. It’s just Dora's confused words about seeing me in the west wing, and with everything spinning so fast, how can I drop that bomb now?
He'd think I'm crazy, or worse, he’ll start to hate me.
For lying. For deceiving.
I slip away instead, murmuring something about needing air.
My phone feels cold in my hand as I pull it from my purse.
My fingers tremble as I dial Emma. I lean against the wall for support, the paint cool and slightly tacky on my back.
It rings a few times, and when she picks up, her voice is filled with concern.
"Jules? What's wrong?" she asks.
“I’m in big trouble,” I reply, and exhale.
Then I tell her everything. I spill it all in a frantic whisper, keeping my voice low so no one overhears. What Dora saw in the west wing, the syringe by Frances's bed, finding her unconscious, and how I want to tell Blake everything, the whole messed-up truth.
She cuts in sharply, her tone snapping like a whip.
"Don't you dare— don’t you dare say a word to him or you’ll be in jail by morning, Juliet Redgrave!
You have no proof. It's your word against her.
No one will even believe you. And with everything happening at once, the police will look at you, the imposter, as the prime suspect.
Please just wait, collect some evidence first. Find something solid that exonerates you. "
Her words hit me hard, the logic slicing through the panic like a cold blade.
I nod in agreement even though she can't see, tears slipping hot down my cheeks.
I wipe them away with the back of my hand, smearing my makeup.
Just then, Blake calls my name from the waiting room doorway.
His voice is worried, laced with that edge of exhaustion, and it pulls me back like a lifeline I don't deserve.
“Coming,” I say and end the call.