“Yes,” she said quietly. “I never kept track. He said he would take care of everything.”
Walter. My husband’s father. The man who had died suddenly of a heart attack just six months after Linda’s stroke. We had never questioned his role in managing her medications—he had always been attentive, orderly, present for every appointment. But he was also stubborn, intensely private, and not the kind of man who admitted mistakes easily.
“Did he ever mention this medication?” I asked Linda, holding the bottle where she could clearly read the label.
She squinted. “No. I don’t remember that name at all.”
Her bewilderment looked painfully real.
I left her room with my heart thundering. If Linda had never seen the medication—and Mark hadn’t either—then there was only one person who could have filled the prescription and tucked it into her clothing.
Walter.
See continuation on next pagehe next morning, Mark and I sat in Dr. Simmons’s office while he examined the small bottle with a growing frown.
“This is… concerning,” he finally said. “I never prescribed this to Linda.”
Mark’s head snapped up. “Then who did?”
Dr. Simmons shook his head slowly. “I can’t say. But mixing this with her usual blood pressure medication could have caused dangerous reactions—confusion, dizziness… even an elevated risk of stroke.”
My stomach twisted sharply.
“So… this could have played a role in what happened to her?” I whispered.
Dr. Simmons folded his hands. “It’s within the realm of possibility.”
A heavy silence settled over us.
This wasn’t a misplaced prescription.
This was a hidden one.
The car ride home felt unbearably tense. Mark gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles pale. In the backseat, Sophie chatted cheerfully about her preschool art project, blissfully unaware that her innocent “helping” had just unraveled a secret buried for years.
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