FULL STORY: My seven-year-old fell to the kitchen floor during her birthday party, and when my husband smelled her drink, everything about my family changed.

Detective Miller drove the rental car toward Orlando, and I stared out the window at the passing palm trees.

I was exhausted and hungry and angry.

But I was also determined.

I needed to talk to Noah Thomas.

I needed to know what Mark had told him.

"Where are we going?" Detective Miller asked.

"I don't know. I don't have an address. I only have a name."

"We can check the local records. See if there's a Noah Thomas in Orlando."

"Please."

She pulled out her phone and made a call.

I watched the palm trees blur past the window.

"He's in the system," Detective Miller said after a few minutes. "Noah Thomas. He owns a bar in downtown Orlando."

"What's the address?"

She wrote it down on her notepad.

"I'll program it into the GPS."

The bar was called The Highlander, and it was located in a rundown part of downtown Orlando.

The sign was old and faded, and the windows were dark.

"Is this the right place?" I asked.

Detective Miller checked her phone. "Yes. This is it."

"I don't think he's open yet."

"Let's wait."

We sat in the car for an hour, watching the bar's front door.

Finally, around four in the afternoon, a man showed up.

He was tall, with dark hair and broad shoulders.

He looked almost exactly like Mark.

"That's him," I said.

Detective Miller nodded.

"He's opening up."

I got out of the car and walked across the street.

"Mr. Thomas," I called out.

The man turned around, and his face was a mask of confusion.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"My name is Lauren Carter. I'm Mark's wife."

He stared at me.

Mark's wife?"

"Yes."

"Can we go inside and talk?"

"I don't know—"

"Please. I just want to talk."

He hesitated, then nodded.

"Come in."

We sat at a table in the back of the bar, and Noah Thomas poured me a glass of water.

He didn't drink anything himself.

"So," he said, "why are you here?"

"I need to talk to you about Mark."

"What about him?"

"He tried to kill our daughter."

Noah was silent.

"He tried to kill his own daughter. He put propofol in her drink."

I waited for him to deny it.

But he didn't.

"Mark told you," I said.

"He told me he was going to do something. But I didn't know what. I didn't think he would actually go through with it."

"You knew he was going to hurt someone?"

"He said he was going to hurt someone he loved. Someone close to him."

"That was my daughter."

"I didn't know."

"Why didn't you tell someone? Why didn't you stop him?"

"I thought he was just talking. I thought he was going through another one of his episodes."

"Another one?"

"Mark has been in and out of treatment for years. He has a mental illness, but he manages it."

"What kind of mental illness?"

"He has depression. He has anxiety. But more than that, he has anger issues. He's seen a lot of therapists. He's tried a lot of medications."

"He never told me."

"He didn't want you to know. He was ashamed."

"People who love each other don't hide things."

"I know. But Mark isn't like that. He's always been private."

"I need to know everything. I need to know why he did this."

Noah was silent for a long moment.

"Mark's real father committed suicide," he said finally.

"I know."

"But Mark was the one who found him."

I couldn't breathe.

"He was seven years old. He went to his father's apartment after school. He found him hanging in the living room."

"Oh my God."

"Mark was never the same after that. He blamed himself. He thought he could have saved him."

"But he was only seven."

"I know. But that's how trauma works. It makes you blame yourself."

"Did he ever get help?"

"Yes. But he never fully recovered. He still has nightmares. He still has flashbacks."

"Does he take medication?"

"Yes. He takes medication for depression and anxiety."

"He never told me."

"Because he didn't want you to know. He didn't want anyone to know."

"How did you find out about the propofol?"

"He told me he had access to it at work. He said he was thinking about using it."

"To kill himself."

"Or to hurt someone. He wasn't sure."

"But he decided to hurt Emma."

"I don't think he planned it. I think he was having an episode. I think he lost control."

"That doesn't make it okay."

"I know. But he doesn't deserve to be in jail."

"Yes, he does. He tried to kill his own daughter."

"He's sick. He needs help, not prison."

"Sick people don't try to kill their children."

"Sometimes they do."

"How can you defend him?"

"I'm not defending him. I'm just trying to explain."

"There is no explanation for what he did."

Noah was silent.

"I need to go," I said.

I stood up to leave.

"Lauren, wait."

"What?"

"There's something else I need to tell you."

"What?"

"Mark's real father. His name was Michael. Michael Thomas."

"I know."

"Michael didn't just commit suicide. He was murdered."

"Murdered?"

"By his ex-girlfriend. My mother."

I stared at him.

"He was dating my mother," Noah continued, "but he had a family. He had a wife and child. When my mother found out he was married, she got angry. She killed him."

"How?"

"She poisoned him."

I felt like the ground was falling out from under me.

"Poisoned him."

"Yes."

"With what?"

"Propofol."

My world collapsed.

"Michael Thomas was killed with propofol," I repeated.

"By my mother."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I think Mark wanted to recreate what happened to his father. I think he wanted to die the same way. Or, maybe, he wanted to make his daughter die the same way."

"That's insane."

"I know. But it's the truth."

"I need to see the police report. I need to see the evidence."

"It's all public record. You can look it up."

I was silent.

"Lauren," Noah said gently, "you need to let this go."

"Let this go?"

"Mark is in jail. Emma is alive. You can move on. You can start a new life."

"Move on?"

"Yes."

"Without answers?"

"Yes."