Eli Kane steps out into the glow from one of the parking lot lights, holding a box and a takeout bag. He lifts it up like a white flag. "Pizza and knots," he says. 

We met out here, close to my home, in order not to attract unwanted attention. For what he's about to share with me, we need absolute privacy. 

He's wearing flared tartan pants and a bright purple sweater with little green-and-yellow dinosaurs marching across his chest. Only Eli can rock such an outfit.

I tighten the scarf around my neck. The Gaffney summer evening air is notoriously chill, despite the warm days. "What are the pizza and the knots for?"

He smiles with only half his mouth. "I think you know."

"Still would be nice to hear you say it."

"I'm sorry." He scratches his neck, inside his own scarf. " I should've told you I was planning to buy a ticket to Montreal, to visit. Also: I've never been good at saying I'm sorry. To anyone."

"That's one of the many things we have in common." I gulp. "I'm sorry about snapping at you last night. Aand... about not trusting you."

Not trusting you about the tox screen, I think, and about everything else. 

Even if the sting of the cold lingers in my bones, I still feel a ghost of Eli's mouth, warm on mine. 

I can't believe I thought he killed Victor. I've known Eli for my entire life and he just wouldn't be capable of murder.

"So should we shake on it?" He smiles. 

I accept his outstretched hand. Mine is lily white, blue veins peeking through the skin. His, tanned and calloused from his guitar. "Eli..."

I'm not sure what to say. 

The emotional connection between us is not gone. Despite the fact so many years have passed. It flares up in unexpected moments — a shared glance, a familiar laugh — reminding us of the warmth that still resides beneath the surface. 

We feel love, as any human does. But we're afraid of it. Or, better yet, I'm afraid of it, because I associate powerful emotions with him. 

This fragile connection, this... hesitant step towards something more with Eli, feels terrifyingly like a trust fall. I'm standing on the edge, my back to him, the chasm of the unknown yawning beneath. 

There's a part of me that desperately wants to lean back, to believe he'll catch me. There's a part of him that desperately wants to lean back, to believe that I'll catch him. That this time, the fall won't end in pain for either of us. 

The years have softened some of the sharp edges of the past, and there's a tantalizing possibility of a different outcome.

But the ingrained fear is a powerful deterrent. Leaning back requires a leap of faith I'm not sure I'm ready for.

What if Eli's not strong enough to hold me? 

What if my own baggage, my ingrained fear of intimacy, makes me too heavy to bear?

No one can promise a tomorrow to anyone. No one can promise a forever.  

"We'll work it out," he says, simply. "Even when there'd been conflict between us, it was like this... tangled knot of anger that we'd always eventually solve. Because we knew, Rhi, that anger festers on the inside. Scares away the beautiful feelings and leaves only the destructive ones."

"Look," I say. "If you do come to Montreal... you can stay as long as you want. You can have the spare room. It's not much, but it's a place to land. And if you're serious about looking for work... I can put in a good word for you at some of the labs. It might not be glamorous, but it's a start. And if... if things don't work out between us, Eli, you can always come back to Gaffney. You have a life here, a home. It won't hurt to try, will it?" 

The words feel like a small, fragile offering.

He reaches for my hand, his touch warm and familiar. "No," he says, his thumb stroking my knuckles gently. "It won't."

A sliver of the tension in my chest eases. Maybe... just maybe, this leap of faith won't end up in a fall after all.

"So," I say, needing to shift the conversation to something more concrete, something that feels less like teetering on the edge of a cliff. "The tox screen. What did it say?"

His grip on my hand tightens. "You were right, Rhiannon. You were right all along. The lab results came back positive. There was a powerful toxin detected in the hair sample. Your father was poisoned."

I knew it! I've overheard enough of Mom's crappy true-crime podcasts to know to ask all the right questions. The gears in my brain are turning a mile a minute.

Was it something subtle? Something easily disguised? Was it a one-time massive dose or something administered over time?

I take a generous bite of my yummy pizza. "Was it a very high concentration?" 

"Yeah." He nods, and I can see his brain working too. "What are you thinking? A large, recent dose? Just hours before he died?"

I still remember the piercing sound of the house phone waking me up. When I rolled over and looked at the time on my cable box, it was 3:15 AM.

"It was almost dawn when Mom called to tell me Victor had passed. It seemed really sudden to them, and the doctor said it was liver failure. So, it has to be the toxin that caused it!"

"Our lab used some pretty advanced techniques," Eli says, handing me the paper. "LC-MS/MS."

Liquid chromatography-mass spectrometry? That is advanced.

"What specific chemical compounds did the tox screen find?" I eagerly scan the results, and my eyes land on two in particular. "Alpha-amanitin and beta-amanitin?"

"Oh?" Eli leans over my shoulder, peeking into the report. 

"I mean, they are amatoxins, aren't they? Found in certain species of..." 

"Poisonous mushrooms!" We yell at the same time. 

"It makes sense." Eli paces around the parking lot. "Amatoxin poisoning typically has a delayed onset of severe symptoms. They would appear around six to twenty-four hours after ingestion." 

"So, it's safe to say he ate something with mushrooms in it? Maybe for lunch, or dinner last Thursday?"

"Definitely." He nods. "Then the delayed effect set in some hours later while he was in his study, having a drink. The toxin caused his liver failure and no one suspected foul play. I mean, everyone who knew your father, knew he suffered from liver problems. It was only a matter of time before that did him in."

"But then..."  I can't help the disbelief that creeps into my voice, because the idea is so out of pocket: the person who killed my father not only knew about his liver problems, but also, about the delayed onset of symptoms from amatoxin. "The killer knew." 

Eli looks up at me, a question forming on his brow. 

"They knew exactly how to poison Victor without raising the slightest suspicion he died of natural causes."

His forehead scrunches. "So, it's someone with a medical background?" 

"You think so?"

Eli hesitates, then looks away for a moment before meeting my gaze again.

"It's just... the precision of it. Knowing the delayed effects, the specific toxin... it suggests a certain level of knowledge."

I study him. I recall the "trust fall" mental conversation I just had with myself. 

The leap of faith I'd taken. 

"We're past that, Eli. Remember? We're partners in this. I trust you. I know it wasn't you."

He visibly relaxes, a weight lifting off his shoulders. He offers a grateful nod. "Thanks, Rhiannon. I just... this whole thing is messing with my head."

"Mine too. But we'll figure it out. Together."

"So, not necessarily medical background?" 

"Well, you know, not necessarily. Maybe they just Googled..." I pause mid-sentence. 

"What is it?" 

"Medical knowledge isn't the only kind of knowledge. Plant knowledge could be enough. My mother... She has been a passionate gardener for decades. She even grows some of the mushrooms in our garden. 

A shiver runs down my spine as a new, unsettling thought takes root.

I input my passcode, swipe up to show Eli the Google page I have opened. Which poisonous mushrooms can cause liver failure?

"Listen to this: The Death Cap mushroom (Amanita Phalloides) is the most common and deadliest cause of liver failure from mushroom poisoning, as well as Funeral Bell (Galerina Marginata). The first one, after ingestion, can cause gastrointestinal symptoms, followed by a seeming recovery period before a liver failure develops."

"And the second one?" Eli is all ears.

"The second one... Can cause severe liver damage and failure in a matter of hours, especially in people with liver problems." 

I stare at the bolded words on my cell screen: Galerina Marginata for a long time, before I realize I'm gnawing on my thumbnail, a nasty old habit I ditched years ago.

"Holy shit, Rhi." 

"Yeah." 

I don't say anything else. I can't. I'm hit with a swell of nausea so overwhelming I have to put my elbows on my knees, cradle my head in my hands.

"Should we call the cops?" Eli prompts me.

"I..."

"Rhi. You promised." His eyes are puppy-like, pleading. "You told me, as soon as the tox screen results come back, you'd inform the police. Let them continue the investigation." 

"Just... Give me a little time, Eli," I say. "I need to go home. I need to talk to my mom."

Eli's eyebrows furrow with concern.

"Talk to your mom?" he asks. "About this? Are you sure that's wise? What if she..."

I shake my head, not wanting to speak the unspeakable. "I don't know what to think," I admit. "But something about this... it feels too close. I need to see her, to hear her voice. I need... Some kind of confirmation." 

"Okay," Eli says. "I get it. But, Rhi, be careful. If what we suspect is true... you might be in danger too. Call me as soon as you know something for sure." 

I manage a weak smile.

Then Eli turns,  and I crash into him, a grunt of surprise.

My eyes find his, his lips find mine.

Hand through his scruffy hair, pulling him in deeper, making it count.

His fingers brush my neck, moving up. "Please be careful," he repeats. 

***

When I enter the mansion, mom is preheating the oven, pulling up the recipe for brown butter shortbread cookies. 

I try not to think about everything that the tox screen just revealed to me. 

"Hi hon," she offers me a tender kiss on the cheek. "How was Eli?" 

"How do you know I was with him?" 

"Oh, Tom might have mentioned a little something." Mom gives me a mischievous wink. 

Ugh, I'll kill my nosy big brother if it's the last thing I do. 

"I'm making your favorite dessert, hon." She grins. "Oh no! We're all out of butter. And it's late in the evening. All the household staff has gone home. I don't have anyone to send to the store." 

"Maybe you should go," I suggest, playing my own game, a plan forming in my head. "If you're lucky, you might meet Mrs. Robinson on the way there." 

"I hope not," Mom lets out a heartfelt chuckle. "Last time I met her, she informed me the heatwave has reached a point where we've got people keeling over from heart attacks left and right on their driveways." 

We laugh in unison.

"That's too bad. I really missed your homemade brown butter shortbread cookies."

Mom drops her gaze, fiddling with the fabric lines in her jeans, pushing denim mountains into valleys, popping down and up. "I know, sweetie," she says. "I'm sorry."

Sorry for what, I want to say, but it would be a mistake. Mom can't know I'm doubting her.

Slowly, as if there's a grenade taped to the bottom, I lower myself into the chair next to her. "I could get started on the dough if you pop to the store real quick to buy the butter?" I test the waters.

She beams, unsuspecting. A fly about to walk into a spider web. "Would you?" Mom's already halfway at the door, looking for her gray Nikes. 

Guess she was really looking forward to this mother-daughter time I've just suggested. 

I calculate I have about ten minutes before she comes back. 

My mother's iPhone is on the kitchen stand, hooked up to its charger, where she always leaves it. I swipe a finger across the screen. It tries Face ID first, the screen juddering when it doesn't recognise me, prompting for the passkey instead, bringing up the keypad. 

I enter her password — Tom's birthday. Same as the security code to open the garage door. Welp, at least I know where I stand with my family.

I tap the phone screen. The background lights up, an old photo we had in a frame; Mom with baby Tom balanced on her hip, looking at each other, a smile creeping across mom's younger face. It was that woman's secrets I want, pre-disappointment Lorraine.

My thumb moves across, pressing the photo gallery. Mom stares at Victor adoringly in the latest takes as he gazes in the distance. He looks disinterested, as if bored with all that attention. 

Sweet, human, golden retriever mom, is what Aubrey would say. 

Ew. 

I scroll up.

At first, the images are what I expect: vibrant azaleas, delicate orchids, and the orderly rows of veggies from mom's meticulously kept garden.

But then, the photos shift.

Mixed in with the familiar flora are images I don't quite recognize. Close-ups of various mushrooms begin to appear, their forms alien and unsettling. Some are small and brown, clustered in damp patches of earth. Others are larger, with strange, fleshy caps and vivid, almost lurid colors. 

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. 

It was mom, it was mom, it was all mom, and I'm the only one who can see it.

My mother's head pops back into the kitchen. "Silly me, I forgot my wallet."

When she sees me with her phone, she blinks. "Rhi, what's—"

"You're lying to me! You've been lying since I returned!" I yell at her.

Mom's mouth falls open. "Rhi, I—"

I cut her off, storming forward. I slam the phone down on the table.

"These mushrooms from your garden, in the photos." I point. "They're what killed Victor!"

Mom's eyes hook onto mine, steady, take aim.

"What have you done to him, mom?"

She staggers back, staring down at the phone between us. 

"Rhi," she says calmly, though her eyes betray her. "I can explain."

"No!" I shout. "No more lies!"

"I don't want to lie to you," mom says, hands up, unarmed.

"Then don't. What have you done to Victor? Why? Was it because of his affair?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," mom says, but I know that trick all too well, blowing up mom's wall, so there's nothing for her to hide behind.

"I saw his tox screen. His liver failure was induced by poisoning. Did you do it? Mom, did you kill him?" 

Mom doesn't say anything, can't  lie quick enough.

"I thought he was the only one who'd never leave me." Voice scratchy and raw as tears finally break, rib cage empty, mom's heart dropping all the way, she might never get it back.

"So this was... What? Your way to keep him with you forever?" I can't believe her. 

What the actual fuck? Am I supposed to call the cops on my own mother? 

"No, I... I didn't. It wasn't me. I didn't make dinner that night. Beverly did."