“I know for a fact that she wasn’t in her right mind,” Fran said. “She couldn’t have been. Pat’s always been a cool customer, as dependable as the sunrise. Has she been on anything that would explain this, some kind of treatment?”

Troy ignored the question; a sentence she had just spoken had caught like a burr in his thoughts. Besides, while Fran was a concerned friend and colleague, his mom’s medical history was none of her business.

She wasn’t in her right mind.

His mother’s bizarre and disturbing behavior supported that statement. Screaming at an invisible threat? Running into the street, heedless of the danger?

No.

A sensation like ice-cold water poured along his spine came over him as a terrible realization took hold. He shot to his feet, walking away from the group of his mom’s friends, and called his house again. The line rang three times, and was finally answered. By Grace.

At the sound of her voice, his stomach tightened into a knot.

“Ah, so nice to hear from you, doctor,” she said. “My daughter is resting. May I take a message, my dear?”

“What did you do to my mother?” he asked in a whisper.

“Pardon?” she said. “Whatsoever are you talking about, darling? Is your mother unwell?”

He could hear the smirk in her tone. The gentle mocking. He ground his teeth.

“Did you drug her?” he asked.

“I have no idea why you are hurling these awful accusations at me, doctor,” Grace said, and managed to sound genuinely hurt. “I’ve been here, all day, with my daughter. What has happened to your dear mother? I’m deeply concerned. Pat’s such a lovely woman, a wonderful asset to your family. If any harm has come to her, why, I would be so upset.”

Troy hung up. He couldn’t tolerate her bullshit any longer. He didn’t know how Grace had gotten to his mother, and exactly what she had done to her. He wouldn’t get those answers until his mom’s vital signs stabilized and she regained consciousness.

If she ever did.

43

Monica awoke that afternoon. Bleary-eyed, she read her bedside clock: 2:11. Shadows filled the bedroom, the shuttered windows keeping out the sunshine.

I can’t believe I’ve been lying here, sleeping the day away . . .

Yawning, she sat up. Her shoes were off, but otherwise she was fully dressed. She had no recollection of climbing into bed. Her last waking memory: sitting at her desk in her home office talking to her mother, and then . . .

Something shot out of my mother’s mouth and stung my face . . .

The idea chilled her. But it was obviously a recollection of a bad dream. A patch on her forehead was mildly sore, as if she’d been struck by something, or maybe bitten. She touched the affected area and felt a slight lump.