Chapter 5 - Playing the Devoted Caregiver While Sharpening the Blade
When I returned home at two in the afternoon, the house was eerily silent.
I unlocked the front door, walked into the kitchen, and set down my purse. On the counter lay an empty glass of chardonnay and a plate with artisan cheese rinds—items that were certainly not part of the soft-puree diet I supposedly prepared for Vivian every morning.
I walked softly toward the living room. Vivian was sitting on the sofa, her feet propped up on Grandma June’s antique walnut coffee table, scrolling through an iPad with high-speed precision. She had a pair of designer reading glasses perched on her nose and was humming a lively Broadway show tune.
I stepped onto the squeaky floorboard near the foyer.
In a fraction of a second, Vivian shoved the iPad beneath a sofa cushion, kicked her feet down, slumped her head to her chest, and began to emit a low, pathetic moan.
“Oh... oh dear... who’s there? Grant? Is that you? The shadows are walking again...” she mumbled, letting her left arm dangle limp against the rug.
I stood in the doorway, crossing my arms, thoroughly enjoying the performance.
“It’s just me, Vivian,” I said in a singsong voice. “I brought you a wonderful surprise.”
Vivian slowly lifted her head, squinting through faux-watery eyes. “A surprise? Is it... is it pudding? My mouth tastes like dust, Natalie.”
“Better than pudding,” I smiled, walking into the living room and sitting on the armchair across from her. “I spoke with Grant on the phone. We both agree that your condition has deteriorated past the point where I can safely manage your care at home.”
Vivian’s eyes twitched. A flash of panic darted across her face before she quickly suppressed it.
“What... what do you mean, darling?” she stammered, trying to keep her voice frail.
“We found a wonderful facility, Vivian! Shady Pines Secure Memory Sanctuary,” I announced with boundless enthusiasm. “It’s a state-run, locked-ward psychiatric and memory facility two hours north of Columbus. They specialize in severe, unmanageable cognitive decline.”
Vivian’s spine stiffened slightly beneath her cardigan. “A... locked ward?”
“Oh, yes!” I beamed. “No private phones, no internet access, no outside electronics of any kind. They keep the patients on a strict schedule of heavy sedation, physical therapy, and pureed root vegetables. And the best part? They have immediate availability starting this Friday afternoon!”
Vivian’s breath hitched. For a woman who was supposed to have no short-term memory, her analytical brain was spinning at light speed. Friday was the day she and Grant were supposed to board a flight to Miami before transferring to Belize. If she was locked in a state memory ward on Friday afternoon, she would miss the flight, and Grant would be left holding the bag.
“Oh... but Natalie,” Vivian said, her voice wavering between real panic and fake confusion. “I don't want to leave my sweet Grant. I don't want to leave this house! I know this room... I know the maple tree outside...”
“Now, now, Vivian, don't agitate yourself,” I said, getting up and gently patting her shoulder. “You won’t have to remember anything anymore. The doctors take total control. In fact, two state psychiatric social workers are coming by tomorrow morning to conduct your preliminary intake evaluation.”
Vivian looked up at me, and for the first time in eight months, I saw real, unadulterated fear in her cold blue eyes.
She wanted to scream. She wanted to tell me she was perfectly sane, that she didn't need a locked ward, that she was sharper than I would ever be. But she couldn't. To admit her sanity was to confess to the multi-layered fraud she and Grant had constructed. She was trapped in the very cage she had built to destroy me.
“I’m going to make you some mashed turnips for dinner,” I said sweetly, turning toward the kitchen. “Rest your mind, Vivian. You’ll need all your strength for the evaluation tomorrow.”
As I walked into the hallway, I pulled out my phone and checked the mobile surveillance app I had activated an hour earlier. Tiny, pinhole wireless cameras were now active in the living room smoke detector, the kitchen light fixture, and directly above Vivian’s headboard.
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Every breath they took, every whispered phone call, every gloating laugh was now being recorded directly to an encrypted cloud server managed by Marcus Vance’s legal team.
Let the games begin.
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