Chapter 2: The Taste of Chamomile
Gwen stood in the doorway holding a porcelain teacup on a saucer.
At seventy-four, she was a terrifyingly preserved woman. Her silver hair was styled into an immaculate, rock-solid bob that didn't move even in a gale-force wind. She wore a cream-colored cashmere sweater, gold hoop earrings, and a pair of tailored trousers that looked like they belonged in a Manhattan boardroom, not a dusty, half-packed house in the suburbs.
Her pale blue eyes—so hauntingly similar to Clara’s, yet completely devoid of my wife's softness—swept across the room. They lingered for a fraction of a second on the unmade bed, then settled on me.
"Look at you," she said, her lips curving into a practiced, maternal smile that didn't reach her eyes. "You’re gray as a sheet, Andrew. What did I tell you about resting?"
"I was just... looking at Lily's books," I said. My hand was pressed against my stomach, holding the hard, cold metal of the tin box beneath my shirt. Every breath I took forced the sharp rusted corner of the tin against my ribs.
Gwen walked into the room, her heels clicking loudly on the bare floorboards where the rug used to be. She set the teacup down on Lily's dusty nightstand.
"Marcus is downstairs loading the dining chairs," she said smoothly, reaching out to pat my shoulder. Her hand was ice cold. "He told me you were refusing to leave the second floor. Andrew, darling, we talked about this. The buyers are bringing their contractor at three. They want to measure the load-bearing walls for the demolition."
"Demolition," I repeated, the word tasting like copper in my mouth.
"It’s an old house," Gwen said, waving her hand dismissively, as if forty years of my life were nothing more than a pile of rot. "It has bad plumbing, drafty windows, and... too many painful memories. Rebuilding is the healthiest thing for everyone. For you, especially."
She looked down at the bed.
Her eyes caught the loose thread dangling from the mattress seam.
I felt my heart skip a beat, a sharp, stabbing pain radiating down my left arm. I braced myself against the bedpost, praying my body wouldn't give out right there on the floor.
Gwen leaned down slightly, her manicured hand hovering an inch above the ripped fabric.
"What happened here?" she asked softly. Her tone hadn't changed, but the air in the room suddenly felt twenty degrees colder.
"The... the spring snapped," I lied, forcing my voice to sound raspy, weak, and pathetic. "I sat down too hard. The old wire cut right through the fabric."
Gwen didn't move for three long seconds. She stared at the torn seam, her eyes sharp, analytical, searching.
"Old things break," she finally murmured, straightening up and turning back to me. Her smile returned, tight and perfectly executed. "That’s why we throw them away, Andrew. Now, drink your tea before it gets cold. I had Marcus put two drops of your heart tincture in it."
She picked up the teacup and held it out to me.
The steam rose from the porcelain, carrying the sweet, heavy scent of chamomile—and beneath it, a faint, metallic odor that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
I looked at the cup. I looked at Gwen.
For forty years, this woman had come to my house every Sunday. She had baked casseroles when I was too depressed to eat. She had helped me organize Clara’s death certificate paperwork. She had sat beside me at the riverbank on the anniversary of the disappearance, holding my hand while I stared into the dark, rushing water.
"Thank you, Gwen," I said, taking the cup from her fingers.
"Drink it all, dear," she said, watching me with unblinking eyes. "It will help you sleep on the drive to Marcus’s house."
I raised the cup to my lips. The porcelain clinked against my teeth because my hand was shaking so badly.
I didn't drink. I pretended to take a long sip, letting the hot liquid hover against my lower lip, then lowered the cup.
"I'll finish it downstairs," I said, forcing a faint, tired smile. "I want to take one last look at the study before Marcus locks up."
Something flickered in Gwen’s eyes—a flash of pure, unadulterated coldness that lasted no longer than a heartbeat.
"The study is already packed, Andrew," she said softly. "Marcus cleared the desk an hour ago."
"I just want to see it, Gwen."
She stared at me, her posture rigid, her hands folded neatly over her designer purse. "Of course," she whispered. "Take your time. I’ll be right downstairs."
She turned and walked out of the room, her heels clicking away down the hall.
May you like
The moment she rounded the corner toward the stairs, I stepped over to Lily’s fiddle-leaf fig plant—dead and dried out in the corner—and poured the entire contents of the teacup into the dry soil.
I set the empty cup on the dresser, pulled the heavy metal tin from beneath my shirt, and used the blunt edge of the sewing scissors to pry off the yellowed electrical tape.
