Downstairs in the kitchen pantry, he found a large Mason jar full of the individually-wrapped candies that Grace had been feeding his children. Nana’s Giddy Gum Drops stated the label on the side of the jar, in elegant calligraphic text. He extracted a reddish gum drop from a wrapper and held it up to the light.

The candy was coated in granulated sugar. Or what appeared to be sugar. He brought it to the tip of his tongue, licked.

Sweetness spread throughout his mouth; definitely sugar. He chewed the gum drop, and it tasted like the juiciest strawberry he’d ever savored. No wonder his kids were fiends for this crap.

He searched the pantry for more Grace-concocted items. On a top shelf, he found a decorative tin labeled, Nana’s Easy Time Tea. A giggle escaped him. Did she intend to launch a product line or what? What was next, Nana’s Knockout German Chocolate Cake?

Again, he laughed, though from a logical perspective he didn’t understand what was so funny. But he felt happy. Buoyant.

It’s the candy, he thought. It contained some sort of mood enhancer, triggered the release of brain chemicals that stimulated feelings of euphoria.

Standing in the pantry doorway, he twisted off the lid of the tin. It was full of the fragrant, loose-leaf herbal tea that Grace had been brewing for Monica over the past several days. He inhaled deeply of the aromas wafting from the can . . . and felt a strong current of relaxation wash over him.

If Monica were drinking this tea every day, it was no wonder that she spent so much time sleeping. A mere whiff of it made him want to lie down and take a nap.

He had to get this crap, all of it, out of his house. He might not have been able to get rid of Grace, but he could toss out the bizarre paraphernalia that she was using to drug his family.

As he was standing at the open pantry, emptying the items into a large plastic trash bag, he had the distinct sense that someone was watching him. He turned—and almost shouted in surprise.

Grace stood only a few feet away, at the threshold of the kitchen. She puffed on one of her weird herbal cigarettes, blew out a column of smoke.

He wondered how long she had been observing him. She wore a soft smile, as if she found his activity mildly amusing.

She also wore one of his Chicago Bears t-shirts: dark navy blue with a roaring orange bear on the chest. The bottom of the shirt barely reached her knees. Her legs were bare.

“You’re wearing my shirt,” he said.

“Want me to take it off?” She grasped the bottom edge, began to peel it upward.

“No. I don’t need to see you naked. Ever. Again.”