Chapter 13 - The Dose That Wasn't There
The medication bottles told a story the notebooks no longer could.
I did not discover it.
A hospital pharmacist did.
Sophie had a follow-up appointment the next morning, and I brought every prescription from the house because I no longer trusted our home records.
The pharmacist counted the remaining tablets as part of medication reconciliation.
Then she counted them again.
"Do you have another bottle at home?"
"No."
"Any doses stored in a pill organizer?"
"No."
"Were any tablets lost or spilled?"
"Not that I know of."
She looked at the prescription date.
Then at the count.
"There are more tablets here than I would expect if every scheduled dose was taken."
My stomach dropped.
"How many more?"
She did not answer immediately.
She calculated against the prescribed schedule and refill date.
"Potentially eight doses, but I need to verify dispensing history before I say that definitively."
Eight.
I stared at the bottle.
"Could that happen for another reason?"
"Yes."
"What reasons?"
"Dose changes, hospital-administered doses, samples, missed doses, medication held by instruction, or discrepancies in how pills were transferred."
She was careful.
I appreciated it.
"Can you verify?"
"I can review the medical record and pharmacy fill history."
Sophie's neurologist entered the room before we finished.
Dr. Elena Morris had known Sophie for eight months.
She had coordinated the surgical referral.
She listened while I explained the assault, the missing notebook, and the medication count.
Her face changed when I mentioned possible missed doses.
"We were told there were no missed doses."
"Rachel kept the log."
"You both reported adherence."
The sentence hurt because it was true.
"I reported what Rachel told me when I wasn't home."
Dr. Morris nodded.
"I'm not blaming you."
"I am."
"That will not help Sophie today."
The directness snapped me back into the room.
"Could missed medication have caused the seizure cluster?"
"It could increase risk, but I cannot say that is what happened here."
"Could eight missed doses matter?"
"Yes."
"Would it have changed the decision to move surgery earlier?"
"The decision was based on the full clinical picture, not one factor."
"So Rachel did not cause the surgery."
"I am not making that conclusion."
"But she may have hidden missed medication."
"That needs to be investigated."
Sophie had been listening quietly from the exam chair.
Then she raised her hand the way she did at school.
Dr. Morris smiled gently.
"You don't have to raise your hand here."
Sophie lowered it.
"Sometimes Rachel didn't give me the night pill."
Every adult in the room went still.
Dr. Morris crouched slightly so she was closer to Sophie's eye level.
"Can you tell me about that?"
Sophie looked at me.
I did not speak.
"She said if I was already sleepy, I didn't need it."
The pharmacist closed the bottle.
Dr. Morris's voice remained calm.
"How many times?"
"I don't know."
"More than once?"
"Yes."
"More than five times?"
Sophie thought.
"Maybe."
"Did you ever tell your dad?"
"Once."
I felt the familiar drop of guilt.
"When?"
"The night he was in Denver."
I remembered the trip.
Two nights for a work conference.
Rachel had called me angry because Sophie refused to go to bed.
Sophie came on the phone and said Rachel had not given her medicine.
Rachel took the phone back and told me Sophie meant pain medicine for a headache, not seizure medication.
I believed Rachel because the explanation made sense.
I had told Sophie to listen to her stepmother and go to sleep.
I pressed my fingertips against my eyes.
"I remember."
Sophie looked at me.
"She was mad after."
"Rachel?"
"Yes."
"What did she do?"
"She made me sleep without my night-light."
The room stayed silent.
The punishment sounded small beside everything else.
To a child already afraid of seizures in the dark, it was not small.
Dr. Morris documented the disclosure.
The pharmacist left to contact the dispensing pharmacy.
Twenty minutes later, she returned with records.
The count discrepancy could not be fully explained by hospital doses or prescription changes.
There were still seven tablets more than expected.
Seven likely missed doses.
Not proof of exactly when.
Not proof of intent.
But no longer a vague suspicion.
I called Detective Ruiz from the parking lot.
She listened without interruption.
"The hospital will report the medication concern separately."
"Good."
"What did Rachel mean when she told me the notebook didn't prove anything?"
"We are interviewing her today."
"Will you ask?"
"Yes."
"Will she be arrested?"
"Daniel."
"I know."
"You know I cannot answer that."
I leaned against the car.
"Did you recover the garage footage?"
A pause.
"We recovered part of it."
My chest tightened.
"What does it show?"
"We need to complete authentication."
"Does it show Sophie?"
"Yes."
"Does it show Rachel?"
"Yes."
"Denise?"
Another pause.
"Yes."
I closed my eyes.
"Can you tell me anything else?"
Ruiz lowered her voice.
"The clip is worse than the account we initially received."
That was all she would say.
When I returned to Rebecca's house, there was a padded envelope on the front porch.
No return address.
Rebecca told me not to touch it.
We called Ruiz.
An officer came to collect it.
Inside was a photocopy of three pages from Sophie's missing medication notebook.
The pages had been marked with yellow highlighter.
On one page, beside a date in March, Rachel had written a note in the margin.
Skipped PM dose because she was being difficult.
On another page, two nights later, another note appeared.
No PM dose until she learns not to argue.
The third page was worse.
After a missed dose, Sophie had experienced a seizure before dawn.
Rachel had written beneath it.
May you like
Maybe now she will stop testing me.
