Chapter 7 - AMPHETAMINE
Dr. Salazar saw Matilda that afternoon.
She examined her gently.
Not only speaking to me.
Speaking to Matilda.
“What did the drops taste like?”
“Bitter.”
“How did you feel?”
“My hands shook.”
“Sleepy?”
“No. Too awake.”
“Heart fast?”
“Yes.”
Bloodwork.
Urine.
EKG.
Matilda hated the needle.
She squeezed my hand and whispered:
“I’m brave like Mommy.”
Beatrice used to say that before vaccinations.
I almost broke.
The rapid toxicology screen returned first.
Amphetamine exposure.
I sat completely still.
“Does Matilda take any stimulant medication?” Dr. Salazar asked.
“No.”
“Anyone in the household?”
“My wife has a prescription for Adderall.”
The doctor’s expression became serious.
“I need to make a mandatory report.”
“I understand.”
“Child protective services may contact you. Police likely will too.”
“Do it.”
Matilda looked up from her coloring.
“Am I in trouble?”
Dr. Salazar answered first.
“No.”
She smiled gently.
“You’re helping us understand what happened.”
Later, forensic testing would show that the small dropper bottle seen on video contained liquid with amphetamine residue consistent with medication Pamela had access to.
She had been giving Matilda small doses.
Enough to create agitation.
Insomnia.
Racing heart.
Emotional dysregulation.
Not enough to make the scheme obvious.
Then recording the behavior.
Lincoln called again at 4:18.
“Pamela sent Spencer thirty-two videos.”
“Recorded episodes?”
“Yes.”
“After dosing?”
“We can establish timing on several.”
My stomach turned.
Then he said:
“There’s one more thing.”
Of course there was.
“Spencer and Pamela discussed you too.”
“What about me?”
“Life insurance.”
Silence.
A two-million-dollar policy Pamela had encouraged me to increase after we married.
One message from Spencer read:
If he won’t move on the property, patience may solve the problem eventually.
“Are you saying they planned to kill me?”
“No evidence of that.”
“Don’t exaggerate.”
“I’m not.”
“Then what does it mean?”
“I don’t know.”
That became important.
Once trust dies, paranoia expands quickly.
Every drink becomes suspicious.
Every headache becomes evidence.
Every unexplained sentence becomes a plot.
I refused to give Pamela that much control over my mind.
Facts.
Only facts.
That would be the rule.
At 6:07 p.m., police arrived at my house.
May you like
Pamela was arrested at the kitchen island.
The same kitchen where she had prepared my daughter’s juice.
