Chapter 3: What the Pills Were For
Nathaniel picked up the bottle without touching the glass.
He turned it slowly in his hand.
The label had Evelyn's name printed on it, but the prescribing doctor's name meant nothing to him.
Not her cardiologist.
Not her GP.
A name he had never seen on any of her paperwork.
"Whose doctor is this?" he asked.
Isabella didn't answer immediately.
She was watching him the way someone watches a door they're not sure is locked.
"She needed something to help her sleep," she said finally.
"I arranged it.
I was trying to help."
"You arranged a prescription." Nathaniel set the bottle down.
"For my mother.
Without telling me."
"You're always busy, Nathaniel.
Someone had to take care of her."
Evelyn was sitting on the terrace bench now, wrapped in his jacket, her wet hair flat against her face.
She looked smaller than he had ever seen her.
She looked like she had been shrinking for months and he hadn't noticed.
"Mom." He crouched in front of her.
"How long have you been taking these?"
Evelyn's eyes moved to Isabella.
Just for a second.
Then back to him.
"She said they were vitamins," Evelyn said quietly.
"In the beginning."
The terrace went completely silent.
"She told me the doctor had called them in," Evelyn continued.
"She said you had arranged it.
That you were worried about me."
Nathaniel stood up slowly.
"I never arranged anything," he said.
Isabella's chin lifted.
"Your mother gets confused.
You know that."
"Stop saying that." His voice didn't rise.
It dropped.
"Stop saying she gets confused."
"Nathaniel — "
"How many of these has she taken?"
"I don't know exactly — "
"How many, Isabella."
She smoothed the front of her jacket again.
That small gesture.
He had always read it as composure.
Now he understood it differently.
"One a day," she said.
"Sometimes two if she was anxious."
Evelyn made a small sound.
Not quite a word.
Nathaniel looked at her.
"What is it, Mom?"
"She gave me two most mornings," Evelyn said.
"She said one wasn't strong enough anymore.
That the doctor had increased the dose."
He looked at the bottle.
The label said one tablet.
Once daily.
Isabella had been doubling the dose.
For how long, he didn't know yet.
But the bottle was nearly empty, and the fill date printed on the label was only three weeks ago.
He took out his phone.
"What are you doing?" Isabella asked.
"Calling Dr.
Harmon."
"It's almost nine o'clock at night."
"He'll answer." Nathaniel was already walking toward the far end of the terrace, away from her.
"He always answers for my family."
He heard Isabella take one step after him.
Then stop.
Dr.
Harmon picked up on the third ring.
Nathaniel kept his voice level.
He read the prescribing doctor's name from the label.
He described the pills.
He asked if Evelyn's medical team had authorized any new medication in the last several months.
The pause on the other end lasted four seconds.
"Nathaniel," Dr.
Harmon said carefully.
"We haven't prescribed anything new for your mother since February.
Nothing related to sleep.
Nothing at all."
Nathaniel turned around.
Isabella was still standing by the bench.
Her arms were crossed now.
Her expression had changed — not to guilt, not to fear, but to something harder.
Something that had been waiting underneath the whole time.
"Who prescribed them?" Nathaniel asked into the phone, his eyes on Isabella.
"I'd need to look into that name," Dr.
Harmon said.
"But Nathaniel — if she's been taking an unauthorized medication for weeks, she needs to be seen tonight.
Some of these compounds can affect cognition.
Memory.
Coordination.
They can make a person seem — "
"Confused," Nathaniel said.
"Yes."
He ended the call.
The city spread out below the terrace, indifferent and glittering.
Evelyn sat very still on the bench, watching her son's face.
Isabella hadn't moved.
"You made her seem like she was losing her mind," Nathaniel said.
"So that when she told someone what you were doing, no one would believe her."
"That's a serious accusation."
"It's what you told her yourself.
Tonight.
In front of me."
Isabella's jaw tightened.
For the first time, the smile didn't come back.
"I want you out of this building," Nathaniel said.
"Tonight."
She looked at him for a long moment.
Then something shifted in her expression — not defeat, but recalculation.
"You should think very carefully," she said quietly, "before you do something you can't undo."
"Is that a threat?"
She picked up her handbag from the terrace table.
Smoothed her jacket one final time.
"It's advice," she said.
"From someone who knows things about your family that you don't."
She walked past him toward the interior doors.
At the threshold she paused, her back still turned.
"Ask your mother," Isabella said, "about the letter she wrote six months ago.
The one she signed in front of a notary."
Then she walked inside, and Nathaniel heard the elevator doors open and close.
He stood very still.
Then he turned to Evelyn.
His mother's hands were folded in her lap.
Her face was unreadable in the way that meant she was trying very hard to hold something together.
May you like
"Mom," he said.
"What letter?"
