With my breath coming short, I knock on France’s door. There is no response. I knock again, louder and more insistently. My instinct is screaming at me that something is wrong. I am past the point of caring about courtesy. I push the door open, praying with all of my heart that my world is not about to be flipped upside down.
Chapter Fifty-One
JULIET
The door to Frances's room swings open under my push, the wood heavy, and for just a bit, I freeze in the threshold, my heart slamming against my ribs.
The room is dim with only the bedside lamp casting a warm pool of light on the bed where she lies, still and pale, her silver hair fanned out on the pillow. The air feels thick in here, heavy with that faint lavender from her perfume, mixed with something sharper, almost metallic. My eyes dart to the dark mahogany bedside table where there is a glass of water half-empty, and what looks like a syringe lying beside it. The needle glints dangerously in the lamplight.
The plunger is depressed like it's empty. At one glance, it looks like a case of overdose, her painkiller medication, maybe, the bottle of morphine or whatever she takes for her aches sitting open nearby, but I know better. Instinct screams in my gut that this isn't an accident or suicide. Not Frances. She would never do that to her son, especially not during the annual charity event.
This has the real Carolyn's hand all over it.
My stomach twists, bile rising as I rush to her side, my steps heavy, panic flooding me. Poor Frances, so frail but strong. I tried not to admit it, but she started to feel like family to me. The grandmother I never had. And now she is lying here unresponsive, her chest rising slowly, too slowly.
I drop to my knees beside the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight, and shake her shoulder gently, then harder, my voice cracking as I call her name.
"Frances? Frances, wake up—please."
No response, her skin is cool and clammy under my fingers, and fear chokes me. Tears sting my eyes as I fumble for my phone in my little clasp purse. My fingers tremble as I dial 911, the screen blurring through the film of tears in my eyes. When the operator answers, calm and professional, I spill it all in a rush.
"My mother-in-law is unconscious. There's a syringe. I think it’s an overdose. Please send an ambulance now."
Calmly, the operator makes me give the address.
My voice breaks on the answer when she asks if she is breathing.
“Yes, but shallow?—”
“Good. Keep her airway clear. Help is on the way.”
The call ends with sirens promised in minutes. My hand is on Frances's chest, feeling the faint rise and fall, whispering to her, "I love you, Frances. I really have started to love you lots. Hold on, please. Just hold on." The room feels like it is spinning. The suite’s antique furniture, the four-poster bed, the velvet drapes. All closing in like witnesses to this nightmare.
I dial Blake next, my thumb hitting his name fast, the phone ringing once, twice, my breath hitching as I pace the room. Outside the window, the party lights twinkle like nothing's wrong.
He picks up, his voice low over the music in the background. "Carolyn? Everything okay?"
I break, words tumbling out— "Blake, it's Frances, she's unconscious, syringe on the table, I called 911, come quick."
There is a sharp, shocked intake of breath, then "I'm coming."
The line goes dead and I sink as if suddenly boneless onto the edge of the bed. I take Frances’s limp, bony hand in mine, praying that the ambulance hurries.
Minutes later, Blake rushes in, his face ashen, his tux jacket askew like he sprinted from the party. “What the fuck?” he says hoarsely, rushing towards his mother.
“Mom,” he calls desperately, and my heart breaks to see how distraught he is.
I point to the syringe, and he picks it up and looks at it with a frown. “I don’t understand.”
The paramedics show up faster than I expected; they must have just been around the corner or something, their sirens cut through the festivities like a knife, and I hear the estate's massive wrought-iron gates grinding open down below, security waving them through in a panic.
My heart's already racing, but when they burst into Frances's room with all that gear—bags slung over shoulders, radios crackling—reality hits me harder, my knees going weak as I step aside. Their boots thump heavily on the antique rug, and they swarm around her bed like they've done this a hundred times, efficient but urgent. One of them kneels to check her pulse while another pulls out a clear plastic oxygen mask and fits it over her pale face.
"Ma'am, step back please," the lead guy says, his voice calm but firm, glancing at me with those steady eyes that must see this kind of thing every shift. I nod, swallowing hard, my throat tight as I press against the wall.
Blake takes over answering their questions.
"What medication was it?" one paramedic asks, gloved hands working fast to start an IV, the needle glinting as he tapes it to her arm.
