“I’m safe for the moment,” I said, because as long as I stayed away from that tea, it was true. “I just need you ready.”
“You have my full attention,” she said.
After I hung up, I called my doctor’s office.
When Dr. Reeves came on the line, she sounded concerned before I even finished explaining.
“Yes,” she said immediately. “Medication interactions can absolutely mimic dementia—confusion, fatigue, memory issues. Especially in older adults. If you want to know for sure, we’d need bloodwork and a urine screen. Timing matters.”
“Can you see me first thing tomorrow?” I asked.
“I’ll put you at the top of the schedule,” she said, voice firm. “And Lucinda—if you believe someone is drugging you, we may need law enforcement.”
“One step at a time,” I said. “But I understand.”
That afternoon I went to a big-box store and bought a small digital recorder. No one blinked at a grandmother buying something for “recording choir practice.” The clerk bagged it and wished me a nice day.
At home, Damian stared at it like it was magic.
“It’s tiny,” he said. “You can hide that anywhere.”
“That’s the idea,” I replied. “When your parents get back, we’ll make sure it’s listening.”
That night, after dinner, we sat at the kitchen table and I wrote while Damian talked. He told me what he’d overheard late at night. How Nyla complained about cost. How she said it would be better for everyone if I “just went to sleep.” How Dean had pushed back once or twice early on—then always backed down.
“She doesn’t hit,” Damian said. “She just…makes you sorry you argued.”
He told me about the first time he slipped.
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