“People don’t do that!” Kenzie sounded shocked.
“More people than you think.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“You don’t have kids, though, do you?” Kenzie asked.
“No. Why?”
“I’m just wondering how you know that. Has it come up in one of your cases before?”
“No, but I was a kid once.”
“And your parents gave you cough medicine to make you sleep?”
He had to smile at the outrage in her voice. “I lost my parents when I was young,” he reminded her. “I was that kid who was always getting up at odd hours and getting into trouble. Or staying up all night unable to get to sleep. If I wasn’t on sleep meds, more than one home gave me cough medicine.”
“That’s unconscionable! You don’t give children cough medicine to make them sleep. That’s completely wrong.”
“What would a doctor have prescribed?”
There was a hesitation on the line. “Well, probably an antihistamine or Ambien.”
“Have they been studied for use as sleep agents in children?”
“No,” she admitted. “It’s off-label, but that doesn’t make it right to give kids cough medicine to make them sleep.”
Zachary shrugged. “I’m not recommending it, just saying it happens. What if that’s what happened to Declan?”
“He was drugged?” Kenzie asked, suddenly getting it. “He was drugged and then drowned?”
“That would take care of the bruises, wouldn’t it? No need to hold him down.”
“His body would still fight back, struggle, even unconscious.”
“But it wouldn’t be the same. He wouldn’t be trying to push himself up and escape, he’d just be flailing, right?”
“I… don’t know.”
“And all the person drowning him would have to do was make sure his mouth and nose stayed below the surface of the water.”
Kenzie swore, not answering.
“How much cough medicine would it take to knock a kid out? Would it be outside the ‘normal parameters’ table?”
“I don’t know. I imagine it would be different for different children. Depending on age, body weight, metabolism, and the way they reacted to the ingredients. Some kids get hyper. Some fall asleep. Some don’t show any particular reaction.”
Zachary realized he wasn’t going to be able to close the case.
Not yet.
Despite Spencer’s previous request, Zachary didn’t call to set up another interview. He timed his visit for when Isabella would hopefully be home from work, and he’d be able to talk to both of them. Separately, not together.
It was Spencer who answered the door again. He looked Zachary over with distaste.
“Mr. Goldman. Again?”
“I have some important questions to ask you and your wife. I found something the medical examiner’s report.”
Spencer blinked, his complexion turning ashen. “What do you mean, you found something? The medical examiner determined it was accidental drowning.”
“It may be nothing. On the other hand, it might show modus operandi.”
“Modus operandi?” Spencer repeated. “What are you, a British detective novel? This isn’t murder; this is an accident.”
“We’ll see,” Zachary said flatly. “I’d like to talk to Isabella first. Is she in her studio?”
“Of course.” Spencer didn’t move out of the doorway, blocking Zachary’s way.
“I’d like to go talk to her, please.”
Spencer stood there for a few more seconds, considering his options. He eventually decided there was no point in slamming the door in Zachary’s face, and stepped back to let him in.
“Thank you.”
Of course, if Spencer had shut him out, he could have just called Isabella to get her to let him in. Or Molly. She probably had a key too.
He hadn’t asked who had keys to the house or if the doors were left unlocked during the day. How many people would have had access to Declan while he was inside the house? Not that it mattered, when there was no key needed to access him while he was out playing in the yard.
If that was really what he had been doing before he disappeared. Zachary was no longer sure that was even what had happened.
What if Declan had been rendered unconscious by a dose of cough medicine, his breathing and heartbeat so depressed that they couldn’t be detected? What if they took him out to the pond and left him floating face down, thinking that he was already dead?
Spencer stood there for a moment, then walked away briskly, back to his office, not offering to walk Zachary to Isabella’s studio. That was not a problem; he knew the way on his own.
He stood in the doorway watching Isabella for a few minutes unobserved. She was painting, engrossed in her work. There was no blue on her canvas. Her palette was resting on a high table instead of in her hand, and her free hand ran up and down the necklaces, touching and fiddling with the pendants. She released the necklaces and brushed her fingers over the tattoo on her right forearm.
“Until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of His hand.”
Even with no one in the room with her, she was still repeating it. Spencer had suggested she could suppress the tic with an effort of will, but that it would return once she let go. And he was right.
Was it grief or was it guilt? He knew the stats. Most child homicide victims were murdered by their parents. Had her mental decline started before Declan’s death, and his drowning ‘accident’ was only another symptom of how sick she had become? Or had he gotten in her way too often, disrupting the life that she had tried to build for herself, and she had simply had too much? Motherhood wasn’t for everyone, Zachary had learned that lesson the hard way. More than once.
Or maybe it had just been a tragic accident that they—or she—had clumsily tried to cover up after the fact.
Zachary tapped on the door before he entered, alerting her to his presence. “Isabella?”
Isabella looked in his direction with a vague expression. It was a moment before she focused on him and realized who he was.
“Oh… Mr. Goldman. I didn’t know we were expecting you.”
“I have some new questions for you.”
She shook her head, looking back at her painting again. She stroked
