Chapter 8 - The Parking Lot Exchange
The gravel lot behind St. Jude’s Country Church sat empty in the late afternoon sun, bordered by tall oak trees that cast long, quiet shadows across the dirt. I cut the engine of my sedan, the sudden silence inside the cabin pressing heavily against my eardrums. In the backseat, the young boy shifted, his short brown hair messy from sleep, clutching the edge of his light grey shirt. He didn't complain about the drive or ask where we were going. He had been quiet ever since we left the diner, bearing a gravity far beyond his years.
"We're just meeting someone to talk," I said softly, turning my head to look back at him. My fingers gripped the steering wheel, the skin over my knuckles taut and pale.
"The policeman?" he asked, his voice steady.
"Yes. Deputy Miller. Just to tell him everything we saw."
A minute later, a dark blue county cruiser crunched down the gravel drive, slowing to a halt a few yards from my front bumper. The tires kicked up a light gray dust that settled slowly on the weeds lining the fence. Deputy Miller stepped out of the driver's side, adjusting his belt and the brim of his tan hat. He looked every bit the local law enforcement officer—pragmatic, weathered by county roads, and entirely out of place in the surreal nightmare my life had become.
I opened my door, stepping out onto the warm gravel. The afternoon air smelled of dry dirt and pine needles. The deputy walked over, his boots crunching rhythmically, and offered a measured, sympathetic nod.
"Mrs. Reynolds," he greeted quietly, glancing back toward the car where the young boy was watching through the passenger window. "You said on the phone you had something that needed looking into right away."
"I do," I answered, my voice dropping lower. I reached back inside the front passenger seat and carefully lifted the Mason jar I had used to scoop up the shattered floral porcelain shards and the glowing green residue. The lid was screwed on tight, sealing in the faint, chemical tang that I could still smell if I thought about it too hard. I held it out toward him, the weight of it settling heavily in my hands. "It's from my kitchen. My dining room floor. The tea was spiked."
Deputy Miller frowned, stepping closer under the shade of the oaks. He peered through the thick glass at the fragments of the floral porcelain teacup and the strange, iridescent green sludge pooling at the bottom. He didn't touch it immediately, but his professional demeanor shifted instantly from polite county officer to someone assessing a crime scene.
"What am I looking at here?" he asked, his eyes narrowing as he studied the viscous residue.
"Poison," I said, my chest tightening. "Someone tried to poison me. My stepmother-in-law poured it. If he hadn't stopped me—" I motioned back toward the car, where the boy was now pushing the door open to step out beside us.
The young boy walked over, his dark shorts and light grey shirt brushing against my leg as he stood close. He looked up at the tall deputy without hesitation.
"I saw her put the drops in the cup," the boy said clearly, his voice carrying an unshakeable conviction that stopped the deputy in his tracks. "She had a little glass bottle in her apron pocket. She stirred it with a spoon before she walked it into the dining room. She wanted to hurt the baby."
Deputy Miller looked down at the boy, then back to me, taking in the raw truth written plainly across both of our faces. There was no hesitation in the child's tone, no childish exaggeration, just a stark, chilling recount of domestic sabotage.
"You're entirely certain of what you saw, son?" Deputy Miller asked gently, dropping his gaze to meet the boy's level stare.
"I'm sure," the boy replied firmly. "She smiled when she set it down on the table. Like she was doing something nice. But she wasn't."
The deputy exhaled slowly, taking the glass jar from my hands with practiced care. He held it up to the declining sunlight, examining the way the green liquid caught the amber light through the glass. The silence between us stretched for a long moment, broken only by the distant rustle of wind through the oak branches.
May you like
"All right," Deputy Miller said, securing the jar in a padded case on the front seat of his cruiser. "We're going to log this down at the station and get it over to the state lab tonight. In the meantime, I want you both staying put where I told you. I'll take your formal statement now, and once I have the preliminary toxic report back, we're going back to that house."
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