DeMarco started the engine and pulled away from the curb, following the patrol car that carried Dr.Chen."Maybe something will come out in interrogation."
"Maybe.Or maybe we're just not seeing the whole picture yet."Kate stared out the window at the passing houses, most of them dark and quiet in the early morning hours."We still don't have definitive toxicology results that prove Dr.Chen's medications killed either victim.We're operating on suspicion and circumstantial evidence."
"The preliminary results from Carol Bennett's autopsy suggested elevated levels of benzodiazepines," DeMarco pointed out."And Dr.Chen prescribed Lorazepam to both victims."
"I know," Kate said."And that's certainly suspicious.But elevated levels could come from a variety of sources, not necessarily from Dr.Chen deliberately increasing dosages or prescribing additional medications."
They drove in silence for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts.Kate found herself thinking about the victims again.Carol Bennett, a recently divorced woman struggling with the transition to an empty nest.Victor Rodriguez, an elderly widower, worried about his finances and his independence.Both had been dealing with anxiety about major life changes, both had sought help from the same psychiatrist, and both were now dead.
But was Dr.Chen really the connection between them, or was there something else they hadn't discovered yet?
CHAPTER TEN
The laptop screen cast a pale glow across the small apartment as she scrolled through the local news website, searching for any mention of what had happened the night before.The morning light filtered through her thin curtains, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air above her cluttered coffee table.
There it was.A brief article, hastily written for the breaking news section: "Local Man Dies of Apparent Heart Attack."The headline was stark and simple, providing no hint of the profound mercy that had been delivered.
She clicked on the link and read the short paragraphs that followed.Thomas Rodriguez, 74, found dead in his home by his daughter.Preliminary examination suggested cardiac arrest.The article mentioned that he had been caring for his daughter and grandchildren, who had been staying with him recently due to "family circumstances."
A familiar mixture of satisfaction and grief washed over her as she studied the accompanying photograph.Rodriguez smiled at the camera, his arms wrapped around a young woman and two children at what appeared to be a family gathering.His face radiated the kind of contentment that came from being needed, from feeling useful and protective.He had no idea, in that captured moment, of the pain that was coming for him.
But now he would never have to experience it.
She enlarged the photo, studying the faces of the grandchildren.They looked happy, secure in their grandfather's embrace.The daughter appeared tired but grateful, leaning into her father's shoulder with the relieved expression of someone who had found safe harbor.
They didn't understand yet.None of them did.They saw his death as a tragedy, a loss, a cruel twist of fate that had robbed them of their protector.But in time, they would come to see the truth.They would realize that he had been spared the slow erosion of hope that came with watching an adult child struggle and fail, again and again.
She had seen it so many times before.The pattern was always the same.The adult child would return home, full of promises and good intentions.The parent would welcome them with open arms, believing that this time would be different, that their love and support would be enough to turn things around.But it never was.The child would sink deeper into whatever crisis had driven them home in the first place, and the parent would watch helplessly as their attempts to help only seemed to make things worse.
The guilt was the cruelest part.The endless questioning, the second-guessing, the crushing weight of wondering if their intervention had actually enabled the very behavior they were trying to change.She had watched parents destroy themselves with that kind of guilt, had seen them waste away from the inside out as they poured their resources and energy into a bottomless pit of need.
Thomas Rodriguez had been heading down that same path.His daughter had fled an abusive marriage, bringing her children with her to live in his small house.The stress was already affecting his health, already wearing him down with worry and responsibility that should have belonged to someone else.Soon enough, the daughter would have started making demands, asking for money, expecting him to provide childcare while she figured out her life.Because in the end, they all resorted to a child’s self-centered ways.
The children would have grown resentful of their cramped living situation, acting out and adding to the chaos.And Thomas would have blamed himself for all of it.
She closed the laptop with a soft click.The apartment around her was quiet and still, the kind of silence that came from years of living alone.But it wasn't empty silence.It was full of presence, full of memory, full of purpose.
She walked across the small living room to the hallway, passing the kitchen where a single coffee cup sat in the sink and the bathroom where only one toothbrush occupied the holder.At the end of the hall stood a door that she opened with the reverence of someone entering a sacred space.
The bedroom was exactly as it had been left.Clothes still hung in the closet, organized by color and season.The bed was made with hospital corners, the way she had been taught in college.On the nightstand, a stack of textbooks sat next to a small jewelry box and a framed photo of friends laughing at some long-forgotten gathering.
She moved to the dresser, running her fingers along its polished surface.Makeup brushes stood in a ceramic holder, their bristles still shaped from their last use.A tube of mascara lay open next to a compact mirror that reflected nothing now but emptiness.College textbooks were stacked neatly on one corner, their spines bearing the names of subjects that would never be completed.
Everything remained exactly as it had been, frozen in time like a museum exhibit dedicated to possibility and promise and dreams that would never be fulfilled.
She opened the top dresser drawer and touched the folded clothing inside, soft cotton and silk that still held the faintest trace of perfume.
She was doing this for all the parents who don't understand yet.She was, in some ways, offering them a form of mercy they didn’t even know they needed.
Her fingers traced the edge of a sweater that had been a Christmas gift, remembering the joy on both their faces when it was unwrapped.Such a simple moment, such an ordinary expression of love between parent and child.But those moments were rare and precious, made all the more valuable by their scarcity.
Most of the time, there had been disappointment.Broken promises, missed opportunities, the gradual erosion of trust and hope.The slow realization that love alone wasn't enough to fix what was broken, that all the support and encouragement in the world couldn't force someone to become the person they were meant to be.
She had learned that lesson the hard way, had paid the price that came with believing too long, hoping too much, refusing to accept the inevitable.But that experience had given her insight, had shown her the truth that other parents couldn't see until it was too late.
Some stories didn't have happy endings.Some children couldn't be saved, no matter how much their parents loved them or how hard they tried to help.
And the kindest thing, the most merciful thing, was to spare those parents the long journey toward that devastating realization.
