Chapter 14 - THE LAST THREE DAYS
Grandma recognized the hospital room immediately.
"Seven East."
Dad looked at her.
"You remember the floor?"
"I remember everything about that week."
I did not.
Beth Alvarez later sent a written statement about Candace's volunteer history.
She included copies of two old internal emails.
One documented Mom's complaint.
The other instructed staff not to assign Candace to the Sutton family again.
Dad printed both.
He stared at the timestamp on the second email.
He had been sitting beside Mom in chemotherapy at that exact hour.
He remembered because she spilled ginger ale on his sleeve.
The memory was ridiculous and vivid.
Candace existed in the background of that day as an administrative problem nobody told him about.
Dad said grief had always made those months feel like one continuous storm.
Now records broke the storm into dates.
Dates gave him back details.
Some were painful.
Some were funny.
Some proved that not every hour had belonged to fear.
He began writing down memories of Mom that had nothing to do with illness or Candace.
The time she locked her keys in the car twice in one week.
The way she sang the wrong lyrics on purpose.
The terrible green cake she made for my seventh birthday.
Restoring Mom became another form of evidence.
Not evidence for court.
Evidence for us.
I remembered vending-machine crackers.
I remembered a nurse with purple glasses.
I remembered Dad telling me Mom was too tired to talk.
I remembered drawing a yellow house on printer paper and taping it to the wall.
Adults carried the rest of that week in sharper pieces.
Mara enlarged the photograph.
The reflection was blurry but clear enough to show a woman near the door.
Dad stared at it.
"I don't remember her being there."
Grandma did.
"She brought coffee."
Dad looked at her.
"Who?"
"Candace."
"You saw her?"
"Once."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Grandma's face tightened.
"I didn't know her name then."
"You knew later."
"Later I thought maybe I was remembering wrong."
Dad stood and paced.
"Everybody thought maybe."
"Maybe she was helpful."
"Maybe Laura was paranoid."
"Maybe Hallie volunteered."
"Maybe I signed paperwork I don't remember."
He stopped.
"There are too many maybes."
Mara nodded.
"Then we replace them with records."
She called the hospital's legal department.
Because the events involved a deceased patient and possible unauthorized access, the hospital could not simply hand over everything.
But they could preserve records pending a formal request.
Mara sent one.
Detective Ruiz sent another.
By evening, we had partial visitor logs from Mom's final hospitalization.
They were incomplete because the unit did not require every visitor to sign in.
But volunteer access badges were recorded electronically.
Candace's volunteer badge had opened the oncology-family lounge four times in Mom's last three days.
Dad read the dates aloud.
"Why?"
Grandma whispered, "She was not assigned to Laura anymore."
Mara called the former volunteer coordinator.
Her name was Beth Alvarez.
She had retired but agreed to speak.
Beth remembered Candace.
Not fondly.
"She was efficient," Beth said.
"But she crossed boundaries."
Mara put the call on speaker.
"What kind of boundaries?"
"She got too involved with families."
"Did anyone complain?"
There was a pause.
"Laura Sutton did."
Dad's fingers tightened around the edge of the table.
"What did she say?"
Beth hesitated.
"She said Candace asked questions about finances."
"She said Candace went into rooms without being requested."
"She said she wanted her removed from the family-support rotation."
"What did you do?"
"I removed her."
"Then why was her badge used on the floor days before Laura died?"
Beth went quiet.
"It should not have been."
"Was the badge disabled?"
"It should have been reassigned."
"Could she still use it?"
"If the access list was not updated properly, yes."
Mara asked whether Candace had any reason to know Dad personally.
Beth sighed.
"She talked about him."
Dad looked up.
"What?"
Beth continued.
"Not in an inappropriate way at first."
"She said he was devoted."
"She said it was rare to see a husband so involved."
"Then later she said he looked lonely."
The room went silent.
"Did she ever say she was interested in him?" Mara asked.
"Not directly."
"Did you suspect it?"
Beth hesitated.
"After Laura complained, yes."
Dad walked out of the kitchen again.
I stayed this time.
I was tired of chasing adults into other rooms.
Beth said one more thing before the call ended.
"I remember an incident the week Laura died."
Mara leaned forward.
"What incident?"
"Candace asked me whether widowers were allowed to keep using hospital family services after a spouse died."
Grandma covered her mouth.
"When?"
"I can't remember the exact day."
"Before Laura died?"
Another pause.
"Yes."
Afterward, Mara sent the information to Detective Ruiz.
Nobody said what we were all thinking.
Mom had been terminally ill.
Candace had not caused the cancer.
But she had apparently been planning for a future in which Mom was gone.
Before Mom was gone.
That knowledge felt like a violation all by itself.
At 8:20, Dad came back inside.
His face was calmer.
"I called my therapist."
I looked at him.
"The one from when Mom was sick?"
He nodded.
"She's going to look for appointment records."
"Why?"
"Because if Laura thought I was having an affair, I want proof of where I was."
Grandma lowered her eyes.
Dad saw it.
"I'm not blaming you."
"You should."
"No."
"I believed her."
"Laura believed it too."
"And I should have questioned it."
Dad sat across from her.
"We all should have questioned more things."
I listened to them and realized something uncomfortable.
Candace had survived inside our family by using everyone's worst fear.
Dad feared being alone.
Grandma feared betraying Mom.
I feared causing conflict.
Trent feared failing.
Candace gave each of us a version of reality that made staying quiet feel safer.
That was how she made room.
Not by moving furniture.
By moving people away from one another.
At 9:03, Detective Ruiz called again.
They had found Candace.
She had checked into a motel under her maiden name forty miles east of the cabin.
Officers were speaking with her.
Dad stood.
"Is she under arrest?"
"Not at this time."
His jaw clenched.
"Why not?"
"Because we are still verifying financial records and the loan execution."
"She took my truck."
"The vehicle was available to her as a household member with a spare key."
Dad looked furious.
Ruiz continued.
"However, she is now aware that she is not to access your work credentials, remove property from the residence without arrangement, or contact Hallie directly."
I looked at Dad.
"She can't contact me?"
"That's what I requested," he said.
Ruiz added, "We strongly recommended it pending the investigation."
Not a court order.
Not yet.
Just a line she had been told not to cross.
I already knew how Candace treated lines.
At 11:17, my phone buzzed.
No number.
No text.
Just an audio file sent through an anonymous sharing link.
I should have gone to Dad first.
I did not.
I put in my earbuds and pressed play.
Candace's voice came through immediately.
Then Mom's.
The recording was old.
Their voices were low.
Mom sounded exhausted.
Candace sounded calm.
"Russell will move on," Candace said.
Mom answered, "Of course he will."
"And Hallie?"
"What about her?"
"Children adjust."
Mom's voice sharpened.
"To what?"
There was a pause.
Then Candace said, "To whoever stays."
The audio cut off.
My hands shook.
There was one line of text beneath the file.
Your mother knew exactly who I was.
I ran to Dad's room.
His door was open.
His bed was empty.
I called his name.
No answer.
I ran downstairs.
The back door was open.
Dad was in the yard.
He held an envelope.
"What is that?"
He turned.
"It was taped to the maple tree."
I showed him my phone.
He showed me the envelope.
Inside was a single page torn from Mom's journal.
The handwriting was hers.
At the bottom, one sentence had been circled in red ink.
May you like
If anything happens to me sooner than expected, do not let Candace near Hallie.
