The next morning, Vanessa called Grace before I could.
I found out when Grace sent me a text at 7:12.
Ms. Vanessa told me not to return. Please tell Mrs. Bennett I hope she heals well.
I read the message twice.
Then I called Vanessa.
She answered on the fourth ring.
“Morning.”
“What did you do?”
Silence.
“Adrienne—”
“You fired Grace?”
“I told her not to come until we decide what to do.”
“You don't employ her.”
“Your mother doesn't want her there.”
“You had no right.”
“I was protecting Eleanor.”
“No. You were making a decision for me in my mother's house.”
Vanessa's voice sharpened.
“Do you hear yourself? Your employee physically attacked me and you're angry because I asked her to stay away?”
“I said I was investigating.”
“This isn't a crime drama.”
“No, it's my mother's home.”
“And I'm supposed to become part of your family.”
“Then stop acting like you run it.”
That silence felt different.
Cold.
Controlled.
When Vanessa spoke again, her tone had softened.
“You're tired.”
I almost laughed.
“Don't do that.”
“Do what?”
“Talk to me like I'm irrational because I'm angry.”
“I didn't say irrational.”
“You didn't have to.”
“Adrienne, your mother asked for peace. Grace is the source of the conflict.”
“That is incredibly convenient.”
Another silence.
“What exactly are you accusing me of?”
I thought of the unplugged camera.
I did not mention it.
“I'll call you later.”
I ended the call.
That morning I worked from my mother's dining room.
I barely worked at all.
Eleanor slept until ten.
When she woke, I made oatmeal badly enough that she smiled.
It was the first real smile I had seen from her since the incident.
“You always put too much cinnamon in it,” she said.
“You used to complain I didn't use enough.”
“That was before my tongue became elderly.”
I laughed despite myself.
For five minutes, we were normal.
Then I brought her morning medications.
Seven pills.
I knew them by shape now.
White oval.
Tiny yellow circle.
Large chalky white tablet.
Two capsules.
Baby aspirin.
And the blood thinner she hated because it left a metallic taste.
I emptied the organizer into her palm.
She frowned.
“What?”
“The blue one.”
My heart skipped.
“What blue one?”
“There should be a blue tablet.”
I checked the compartment.
Nothing.
I opened the prescription bottles.
Then the next day.
Then the next.
The blue pills were there.
Monday's dose wasn't.
I felt cold.
“Did you take it already?”
“I don't think so.”
“Mom.”
“I said I don't think so.”
That frightened me more than if she had answered confidently.
I pulled out my phone and called her cardiologist's office.
They walked me through what to do.
Do not double the dose.
Monitor symptoms.
Call immediately for chest pain, shortness of breath, dizziness.
I followed every instruction.
Afterward, I stood staring at the pill organizer.
I had filled it myself two nights earlier.
I was almost certain the pill had been there.
Almost.
But exhaustion did things to memory.
That was what I told myself.
Then the silver letter opener disappeared.
Two days later, my mother's pearl earrings went missing from her dresser.
Vanessa found one beneath the sofa.
The other was never found.
“You see?” she said.
We were alone in the kitchen.
“See what?”
“This started when Grace got angry.”
I looked at her.
“Grace hasn't been here.”
“She has a key.”
“She gave it back.”
“She could've copied it.”
“Grace has worked here six years.”
“So?”
“So why would she suddenly steal one pearl earring and a letter opener?”
Vanessa folded her arms.
“People behave strangely when they're angry.”
“They also behave strangely when they're trying to frame someone.”
Her face changed.
Just slightly.
I caught it.
“Are you saying I planted Eleanor's earring?”
“I didn't say your name.”
“You didn't need to.”
She took a breath.
“You know what? I'm done trying to help.”
“Good.”
The word escaped before I could stop it.
Vanessa stared at me.
I expected a fight.
Instead, she nodded.
“Maybe you're right.”
That was somehow worse.
She walked upstairs.
A moment later I heard my mother's bedroom door open.
I followed.
Vanessa was sitting beside Eleanor, holding her hand.
My mother smiled weakly at her.
“Sweetheart.”
I stopped at the doorway.
Sweetheart.
My mother had called Vanessa that before.
Of course she had.
But now the word irritated me.
Vanessa looked over her shoulder.
“I was just checking on her.”
“I can see that.”
Eleanor looked between us.
“What now?”
Vanessa sighed.
“Nothing.”
“Adrienne?”
“Nothing, Mom.”
My mother studied me.
Then she said something I still remember word for word.
“You cannot build a marriage while constantly asking the person beside you to prove they are not your enemy.”
I stared at her.
Vanessa lowered her eyes as though embarrassed by the support.
My mother continued.
“If you love her, act like it.”
I felt like I'd been slapped.
“Mom, the camera was unplugged.”
Vanessa looked up.
“What camera?”
“The hallway camera.”
“Why are you telling me?”
“It went offline three minutes before Grace was burned.”
Vanessa stared at me.
“So now you think I unplugged it?”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Did Grace?”
“I don't know.”
“She couldn't have. She was carrying your lunch tray from downstairs. The footage shows her entering the staircase.”
“Then maybe your mother did it.”
