Chapter 2 - The Sleight of Hand
The kitchen was cooler than the patio, smelling of roasted garlic, smoked paprika, and the clean, sharp scent of fresh pine sawdust that still lingered in the air vents.
My aunt Clara was sitting at the island, dipping a tortilla chip into a bowl of guacamole while her sister-in-law, Martha, leaned against the refrigerator recounting a dispute she was having with her homeowner’s association over a backyard bird feeder. They were deep in conversation, their voices overlapping in that comfortable, rhythmic cadence common to women who had shared Sunday dinners for thirty years.
Neither of them was paying attention to the far counter near the pantry.
Melissa was standing with her back half-turned to the room. The position was unnatural; she had angled her left shoulder outward, using her torso as a screen between the island and the small section of countertop where I kept the electric blender and the knife block.
I stopped just inside the sliding screen door, my rubber-soled work boots making no sound on the new white oak planks.
On the counter sat two highball glasses. They were heavy-bottomed, fluted crystal glasses that Rachel’s grandmother had given us for our wedding. Both were filled with a vibrant, sparkling pink liquid, ice cubes clinking softly against the glass. Atop each rim sat a wedge of fresh pineapple skewered with a bright turquoise paper umbrella.
They looked identical. Cheerful, festive, innocent.
Melissa’s right hand was hovering over one of the glasses. Her fingers were curved around a small, amber glass dropper bottle, no larger than a thumb.
She wasn't using the dropper. She had unscrewed the rubber cap entirely and was tipping the mouth of the vial directly against the rim of the left-hand glass, letting three, four, five thick, viscous drops slide down into the carbonated pink liquid.
The drops didn't immediately disperse. They sank toward the bottom of the glass like pale ghosts before the rising bubbles of soda caught them, shredding the oil into microscopic ribbons that dissolved into the raspberry coloring.
She didn't look up. Her breathing was shallow, visible in the slight hitch of her linen blouse.
She capped the bottle with a quick, decisive twist, slipped it into the small, structured leather handbag hanging from the crook of her elbow, and zipped the brass closure with a single, practiced pull.
Then she took a breath. Her shoulders dropped three inches. She reached down, picked up the left-hand glass by its fluted stem, picked up the right-hand glass with her other hand, and turned around.
She didn't expect me to be standing in the doorway.
For a tenth of a second, the mask slipped. Her pupils contracted, and her mouth formed a small, startled circle, her jaw slackening just enough to reveal the lower row of her teeth. The ice in the glasses gave a violent, nervous rattle against the crystal.
"Daniel," she said, her voice breathier than usual. "You startled me."
I didn't move. I kept my weight centered, my hands loose at my sides, my face as blank as a sheet of freshly planed birch.
"Did I?" I asked.
"I didn't hear the screen," she said, recovering her composure with frightening speed. The honey was back, though her cheeks were slightly pinker than they had been on the patio. "I was just finishing Ethan’s mocktail. And I made one for Grant, too. He’s always complaining about being dehydrated when he sits inside with the air conditioning running."
"That’s thoughtful of you," I said.
She stepped past me toward the patio, carrying both glasses at chest height. "Grant’s on the couch in the living room, actually. He’s watching the pre-game show. I’ll give Ethan his first before the ice melts."
"I'll take Grant’s," I offered, extending my hand toward the right-hand glass. "Save you the trip back inside."
Her grip tightened on the stems. Just for an instant, a sharp, metallic edge flared in her eyes. "Oh, don't worry about it. I have to go through the living room anyway to grab my sunglasses. You go on outside and make sure Tyler doesn't burn the ribs."
She didn't wait for my answer. She moved past me into the short hallway that led from the kitchen to the formal living room at the front of the house.
I didn't go to the patio. I turned around and followed her.
The living room was quiet, lit by the pale afternoon light filtering through the front bay windows. The fifty-five-inch television on the wall was playing a college football preview, the volume kept low so it wouldn't compete with the party outside. Grant was slumped in the corner of the deep charcoal sofa, his legs stretched out on my new woven rug, his thumb flicking rhythmically down the screen of his smartphone.
Melissa walked in and set the right-hand glass on the marble coaster sitting on the end table beside his elbow.
"Here, Grant," she said briskly. "Drink something other than bourbon."
Grant didn't even look up from his screen. "What is it?"
"Italian soda. Raspberry and club soda. Drink it before the ice waters it down."
"Yeah, thanks," Grant muttered, his eyes glued to an email thread. He didn't touch the glass.
Melissa turned, holding the left-hand glass—the glass with the five heavy drops—and walked toward the front hallway. She intended to take the long way around, through the foyer and out the side door to the patio where Ethan was playing.
"Melissa," I said from the archway.
She stopped, her hand on the brass door handle of the front entry. She turned, her eyebrows raised in an expression of polite inquiry. "Yes, Daniel?"
Before I could answer, the front door swung open from the outside. Ethan burst into the foyer, his cheeks flushed scarlet, his sneakers squeaking on the hardwood. Scout tried to shoulder his way in behind him, but Ethan turned and pushed the dog gently backward, laughing.
"Stay out, Scout! Dad said no dogs in the front hall!"
He looked up, saw Melissa holding the bright pink drink with the turquoise umbrella, and his eyes went wide with pure, seven-year-old delight.
"Is that mine?" he asked, practically bouncing on his heels.
"It certainly is, sweetie," Melissa said, crouching down to his eye level with a smile so radiant, so maternal, that if I hadn't seen the amber bottle sixty seconds ago, I would have wept with gratitude for having such a sister-in-law. "Just for you. A special big-boy drink for your new house."
She held the glass out toward his small, dirt-smudged hands.
Ethan reached for it.
"Ethan," I said. My voice wasn't loud, but it had the flat, hard authority I used when he was about to touch a hot stove or step off a curb into traffic.
Ethan froze, his fingers two inches from the crystal stem. He looked back at me, confused. "Dad?"
"Your shoe," I said, pointing down at his left foot.
The lace of his blue sneaker was untied, dragging along the floorboards, coated in dried dirt from the garden bed.
"Oh," he said, looking down. "I can fix it."
"Come here," I said, walking toward him and crouching down in the center of the foyer, right between him and Melissa. "You’re going to trip over that step into the kitchen. Come here and let me double-knot it."
"I wasn't going to trip," Ethan grumbled, but he stepped toward me, turning his back to Melissa.
Melissa remained crouched for a moment, her hands holding the pink glass in mid-air, her smile stiffening. "I can hold the drink while you tie it, Daniel. Don't make him wait."
"It'll take five seconds," I said, looking up at her from my crouch. "Set it down on the console table so you don't spill it on your blouse."
She hesitated. Her eyes flicked from me to Ethan, then to the console table against the wall—the old cherry-wood table Rachel had inherited from her mother.
Slowly, carefully, she set the fluted glass on the polished wood.
"There," she said, straightening her spine. "Drink up as soon as Daddy’s done, Ethan. It’s got that cherry syrup you like."
"Raspberry," Ethan corrected, looking over his shoulder. "You said it was raspberry outside."
"Raspberry, yes," she laughed, a high, tinkling sound that didn't reach her eyes. "Aunt Melissa’s getting forgetful in her old age."
I knelt in front of Ethan. I took the muddy shoelace in my fingers, looping the aglets over each other, pulling the knot tight. My hands were completely steady. When you work with miter saws and high-voltage wiring, your hands learn not to shake when you’re terrified. If you shake, you lose a finger.
"Dad, you’re pulling it too tight," Ethan whispered.
"Just making sure it stays, buddy," I whispered back.
Behind me, in the living room, the television shifted to a commercial for a truck dealership.
Melissa took two steps toward the front screen door to check on the noise outside. "Tyler’s calling everyone over to the smoker, Daniel. I think the brisket is ready."
She was looking through the mesh screen toward the lawn. Her back was turned to the foyer console.
I stood up from tying Ethan’s shoe.
In two silent strides, I crossed the threshold into the living room.
Grant was still staring at his phone, his thumb flicking across the glass, totally oblivious to the world outside his inbox. The identical highball glass sat on the marble coaster six inches from his right wrist. Turquoise umbrella. Pineapple wedge. Fluted crystal. Sparkling pink soda.
I picked it up.
I walked back into the foyer.
With a motion as smooth and deliberate as sliding a mortise into a tenon, I set Grant’s untouched glass on the right side of the console table and picked up the glass Melissa had set down—the glass with the five heavy drops.
I stepped back into the living room.
I placed the poisoned glass directly onto the marble coaster next to Grant’s wrist, aligning the little paper umbrella so it pointed toward the television screen, exactly as the first one had.
Grant didn't even blink. He reached out blindly with his left hand, his fingers curling around the cold glass, lifting it toward his mouth without taking his eyes off his screen.
I walked back to the foyer.
Melissa was turning back from the front door. "Daniel, are you coming? Tyler says—"
She stopped.
Ethan was standing by the console table, both hands wrapped around the stem of the pink glass I had brought from the living room.
"Can I drink it now, Dad?" Ethan asked, looking up at me with large, hopeful eyes.
"Go ahead, buddy," I said softly, my hand resting gently on the back of his neck. "Take it outside so you don't spill it on the rug."
Ethan took a long, noisy slurp through the straw, his eyes lighting up. "It’s good! It tastes like candy!"
Melissa stood frozen in the hallway.
She looked at Ethan. She looked at the empty spot on the console table where she had placed the glass. She looked at the bright pink soda disappearing down my son’s throat.
The color began to seep back into her face—a dark, triumphant flush that settled into the hollows of her cheeks. She smiled, a deep, relaxed smile that reached every corner of her mouth.
"I told you he’d love it," she murmured, watching Ethan wipe a pink mustache off his upper lip with the back of his sleeve. "Run along outside, Ethan. Go play with Scout."
"Thanks, Aunt Melissa!" Ethan cheered, turning and sprinting through the front door, the screen slamming shut behind him with a sharp, wooden *thwack*.
Melissa watched him go through the mesh, her shoulders completely dropping, her posture shifting into the posture of a woman who had just crossed a finish line.
"He’s such a sweet boy," she said, her voice dropping into a tender, hushed tone. "He deserves to be taken care of, Daniel. Truly."
"He does," I said.
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From the living room, behind my left shoulder, came the sound of a dry, hacking cough.
***
