Chapter 4: Midnight Harvesting
The wail of the ambulance sirens faded into the distance at 5:58 PM, the flashing red and blue lights reflecting eerily across the dark, still waters of the reservoir. The remaining Foster family stood clustered in the driveway, a tableau of shock. Neighbors peered through the slats of their blinds, eager for Sunday evening theater.
Steve paced the concrete, running agitated hands through his thinning hair. Karen wept quietly into a wad of paper napkins.
Mark stood beside me, maintaining a rigid, two-foot distance. He didn’t reach for my hand. He didn’t seek comfort. Anyone passing by would assume he was paralyzed by the trauma of his mother’s sudden medical emergency. I knew the truth. He was paralyzed by the failure of his own sinister plot.
He kept stealing covert, terrified glances in my direction. Finally, leaning in so the others wouldn’t hear, he whispered, “You should probably have the paramedics check you out, too.”
I turned my head slowly, meeting his gaze with dead, unblinking eyes. “Whatever for?”
“You’ve… you’ve been so exhausted lately.” His voice hitched noticeably on the final word.
“I’ve noticed,” I replied, my voice a flat monotone.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to claw his eyes out. For six agonizing months, he had gaslighted me, brushing off every terrifying symptom I reported. You’re just skipping lunch, Diane. You’re working too hard, honey. Menopause does strange things to the body. Now, suddenly, he was the picture of medical concern.
“I feel absolutely fine,” I stated, turning my back to him.
He opened his mouth to press the issue, but snapped it shut as Steve approached. “The EMTs said they’ll run a full stroke protocol as soon as she hits the ER. They’ll call us,” Steve reported, his voice trembling.
“I’ll drive Dad over to the hospital,” Mark volunteered instantly, eager to escape the driveway.
“No.” Harold shook his head. His voice lacked its usual subservience; it was firm, anchored by genuine fear. “I’ll ride with Steve and Karen.”
Nobody argued. Within moments, the taillights of Steve’s SUV disappeared down the street, leaving Mark and me standing alone in the deafening silence of the empty driveway.
The drive back to our house in Carmel was a suffocating vacuum. The only sound was the hypnotic hum of the tires on Interstate 465. I pressed my forehead against the cool passenger window, watching the streetlights blur into streaks of yellow.
Halfway home, Mark couldn’t handle the silence. “Crazy night.”
“Yes,” I replied, not looking at him.
“Do you think… do you think it was a stroke?”
“I don’t know, Mark. We’ll have to see what the bloodwork says.”
I watched his reflection in the dark glass. He gripped the steering wheel tighter. We didn’t exchange another word.
The moment we walked through our front door, Mark headed straight for the stairs. “I smell like antiseptic and hospital waiting rooms. I need a shower.”
“Take your time,” I called out.
I waited at the bottom of the stairs until I heard the heavy master bathroom door click shut, followed by the rush of the showerhead. The moment the water hit the tiles, I moved.
I sprinted to the pantry, yanked open a box of heavy-duty, gallon-sized freezer bags, stuffed three into my purse, grabbed my car keys, and slipped silently out the side door into the garage.
I drove like a madwoman back to Geist Reservoir. My hands were slick with sweat against the steering wheel. I was operating purely on adrenaline and a terrifying new instinct. I wasn’t just a wife anymore; I was a crime scene investigator preserving my own attempted murder.
Judith’s front door was still unlocked from the chaos of the paramedics’ arrival. There was no yellow police tape, no squad cars—not yet, because nobody suspected foul play. To the world, it was just an elderly woman’s failing health.
I pushed the door open. The house was dead quiet. The dining room looked like a still-life painting of an interrupted tragedy. The heavy oak chair Judith had occupied lay tipped over on the rug. The dinner table was untouched.
My bowl—the one containing the poison, now sitting in Judith’s spot—was exactly where she left it. The silver spoon rested on the napkin.
I hurried to the kitchen sink and ripped open a fresh box of disposable latex gloves Judith used for handling raw poultry. Snapping them onto my hands, I returned to the dining room.
Breathing shallowly, I carefully lifted the China bowl by its base and lowered it into the first thick freezer bag, sealing it tight. I used a pair of tongs to drop the spoon into the second bag.
I was about to leave when a glint of white caught my eye.
Down on the floor, partially wedged beneath the heavy pedestal of the dining table, lay the crushed paper packet.
My pulse roared in my ears. Mark hadn’t pocketed it securely; in his panic, he must have dropped it. Using the tongs, I pinched the edge of the wrapper, ensuring I didn’t smudge any existing prints, and dropped it into the third bag.
I had no legal training. I didn’t know if this evidence would hold up in a court of law, or if I was breaking some statute regarding tampering. But my gut screamed that if Judith’s cleaning lady arrived tomorrow morning, the only physical proof of my husband’s treachery would be washed down the garbage disposal.
I made it back to my own driveway in record time. As I walked through the mudroom, stashing the plastic bags deep inside my locked filing cabinet in the home office, the kitchen light flicked on.
Mark stood near the island, wearing sweatpants, his hair damp. “Where did you go?”
His tone wasn’t curious; it was interrogative.
“I had to run back to the house,” I said smoothly.
His eyes widened slightly. “Why?”
“I left my cashmere sweater draped over the chair.”
He stared at me, his gaze calculating. “You weren’t wearing a sweater when we left, Diane.”
My blood ran cold, but I didn’t break eye contact. I offered a tired, dismissive shrug. “I suppose my memory is acting up again. It’s been a traumatizing night, Mark.”
For a terrifying second, I thought he was going to lunge at me, to demand the truth. But then his shoulders dropped, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. It has.”
We went to bed, but neither of us slept. At 2:15 AM, the mattress shifted. I kept my eyes closed, breathing evenly, as Mark slipped out of the room.
Ten minutes later, I crept to the top of the stairs. He wasn’t in the living room watching television. He wasn’t getting a glass of water. He was pacing the length of the downstairs hallway, back and forth, back and forth, like a caged predator realizing the lock was broken.
When I intentionally creaked a floorboard, he whipped around, his face pale in the moonlight. He was sitting at the kitchen table now, his head buried in his hands. He jumped up so fast the chair nearly toppled over.
“Jesus, you scared me,” he exhaled.
“I could say the same,” I replied softly from the shadows.
Neither of us smiled. The war had officially begun.
