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I leave out the part about already knowing it was a waste of time. I recognize death when I see it.
“I was waiting for the EMTs when I saw the bottle of fentanyl. It was company policy to keep all medications in a locked box beneath our beds. That way only the caregiver has access to them. Maybe I had been tired. Or shaken by how much pain she was in. Whatever the reason, I’d forgotten to take the bottle with me.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to picture the bottle lying on its side against the bedside lamp. I do anyway. I see it all. The bottle. The cap sitting a few inches away. The lone pill that remained. A small circle colored a light shade of blue that I always thought was too pretty for something so dangerous.
“During the night, she had swallowed all but one of them,” I say. “She died while I was sleeping. She was pronounced dead at the scene and taken away. The coroner later said she died of cardiac arrest brought on by an overdose of fentanyl.”
“Do you think it was intentional?” Mrs. Baker says.
I open my eyes and see that her expression has softened a bit. Not enough to be mistaken for sympathy. That’s not Mrs. Baker’s style. Instead, what I see in the old woman’s eyes is something more complex: understanding.
“Yes. I think she knew exactly what she was doing.”
“Yet people blamed you.”
“They did,” I say. “Leaving the bottle within reach was negligent. I won’t disagree about that. I never have. But everyone thought the worst. I was suspended without pay. There was an official investigation. The police were involved. There was enough fuss that it made the local paper.”
I pause and picture my father with the newspaper, his eyes big and watery.
What they’re saying’s not true, Kit-Kat.
“I was never charged with any crime,” I continue. “It was ruled an accident, my suspension eventually ended, and now I’m back on the job. But I know most people think the worst. They suspect I left those pills out on purpose. Or that I even helped her take them.”
“Did you?”
I stare at Mrs. Baker, both startled and offended. “What kind of question is that?”
“An honest one,” she says. “Which deserves an honest answer, don’t you think?”
Mrs. Baker sits calmly, the epitome of patience. Her posture, I notice, is perfect. Her plank-straight spine doesn’t come close to touching the back of the dusty love seat. I’m the opposite—slumped in mine, arms crossed, pinned under the weight of her question.
“Would you believe me if I said no?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Baker says.
“Most people don’t.”
“Those of us at Hope’s End aren’t like most people.” Mrs. Baker turns toward the row of windows and the terrace railing just beyond them. Beyond that is... nothing. A chasm made up of sky above and,presumably, water below. “Here, we give young women accused of terrible deeds the benefit of the doubt.”
I sit up, surprised. From Mrs. Baker’s no-nonsense demeanor, I’d assumed it was forbidden to talk about the tragic past of Hope’s End.
“Let’s not pretend you don’t know what happened here, dear,” she says. “You do. Just like you know that everyone thinks Miss Hope is the person responsible.”
“Is she?”
This time, I surprise even myself. Normally, I’m not so bold. Once again, I suspect the house is to blame. It invites bold questions.
Mrs. Baker smirks, maybe pleased, maybe not. “Would you believe me if I said no?”
I look around the room, taking in the fussy furniture, the rows of windows, the lawn and the terrace and the endless sky. “Since I’m here, I’ll need to give her the benefit of the doubt.”
It’s apparently the right answer. Or, at the very least, an acceptable one. For Mrs. Baker stands and says, “I’ll show you the rest of the house now. After that, I’ll introduce you to Miss Hope.”
That makes it official. I’m Lenora Hope’s new caregiver.
It doesn’t matter that I lied to Mrs. Baker.
Not just about my previous patient.