Mark sat at the kitchen table, rolling the bottle between his fingers over and over, his jaw clenched tight. In the living room, Sophie colored quietly, completely unaware of the storm gathering around us.
“Claire,” Mark said, hesitating, “this medication… it’s strong. I looked it up. It’s used for chronic nerve conditions. Mom was never diagnosed with anything like that.”
“She never mentioned pain,” I added. “Or asked for a new medicine.”
“And the date,” Mark said, tapping the faded label. “It was filled just two months before the stroke. That was around the time she kept telling us she felt ‘off.’ Not sick—just tired, foggy.”
A shiver crawled across my skin.
“What if the symptoms weren’t from the stroke coming… but from this?”
That possibility hung in the air like a storm cloud. For years, we had believed Linda’s stroke had been sudden and unavoidable. But what if the truth was messier? What if someone—intentionally or not—had caused harm?
“We can’t assume anything yet,” I said finally. “Let’s just talk to her doctor.”
Dr. Simmons had overseen Linda’s care since the stroke, and he knew her medical history better than anyone. Mark called the clinic, and to our surprise, the doctor agreed to a next-day appointment to review the bottle in person.
That evening, after Sophie went to bed, I sat beside Linda in her room. She was propped against pillows, watching an old TV show. Her movements were limited; her speech slow but clear enough on good days.
“Linda,” I said gently, “can I ask you something? Do you remember taking any new medication before the stroke?”
She frowned, eyes narrowing as she searched her memory. “New medication? I… don’t think so. Your father-in-law handled all of that.”
My heart stopped.
“Walter managed your prescriptions?”
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