I didn’t know what Daniel had put in our food, or whether the plate could prove anything. I only knew I wasn’t leaving it entirely in his control.
I pulled open the freezer drawer, grabbed a clean freezer bag, and scraped some of the untouched food inside. Noah held the drawer steady while I sealed the bag and hid it behind a half-empty package of frozen peas.
Then I put the blue plate back exactly where Daniel had left it.
Almost exactly.
My hands were shaking so badly that I couldn’t tell whether I’d moved it an inch or two.
We still needed help.
Then I remembered the corded phone Daniel had complained about for years.
It was hidden in the narrow cabinet beside the pantry, behind a stack of old takeout menus.
I picked it up.
There was a dial tone.
I called 911.
I gave the dispatcher our address first. Then I told her my son and I had both collapsed after eating the same dinner and that my husband had spoken as though he expected us never to wake up.
She asked where Daniel was.
