“Let us do our job,” he said. “I’ll see it through this time.”

More tears welled in my eyes. “You never gave up on Clare. Everyone else did, but not you.”

“And neither did you.”

Brit entered the room, her eyes red-rimmed and her hair tangled. She had the look of a woman who’d not slept last night. “Marisa.”

I swiped away a tear and turned slowly. All I could think about were the little blue pills that she’d fed Clare and me.

All the times I’d been so ill. She’d learned from my mother how to control me, but both had pushed me on the path of substance abuse. Staying on that trail was my own damn fault, but maybe, just maybe, I’d never have gone down that road but for them.

“Brit.”

“I’m so sorry.” She moved toward me as Richards stood, though he didn’t step away from the bed. “I had no idea.”

I shifted away from her. “I can’t do this right now.”

She looked stricken. “The police told me what Jack and David did to you. If I’d had any idea . . .”

“Leave me alone, Brit.”

“Marisa, let me take care of you, like I always have.”

I stared at her stricken face. “Why do I always end up feeling worse when you’re close?”

“What are you talking about?” Brit asked.

“I didn’t really feel good until you left for college. That fall you were gone was the first time in my life I felt great.”

Brit didn’t respond.

“Is that what Clare figured out?” I challenged. “Did she realize the pills she’d found were the ones making us either zombies or sick?”

Her expression telegraphed pity, as if I’d lost my mind. “That’s ridiculous.”

I shook my head. “But me being me, I was passing out by then.”

Brit glanced at Richards and then at me, just like Jack had. Her face morphed from sister to lawyer. “I didn’t give you anything. Whatever Clare thought she knew was wrong.”

“Your mother died of a strychnine overdose,” Richards said. “In small doses it would make a person ill.”

“What are you saying?” Brit challenged.

“It’s an odd drug of choice,” Richards said. “Most suicides don’t use it. But it’s very effective if you want to make someone appear chronically sick. You were fifteen when she died?”

“You know I was,” Brit said.

“Maybe you figured out what your mother had been doing.”

Brit held up her hand and took a step back. “If you ever repeat that again, I’ll sue you and anyone associated with you into poverty. I would never have hurt my mother.”

“Or sisters?” I asked.

“Of course not!” Brit shouted.

Richards shrugged. “Don’t get all twisted up. There’s no way of proving anything. I’m just tossing out ideas.”