And that nobody was going to leave that funeral home pretending otherwise.
I was taken to the hospital because of the blow, and that’s where another level of horror began.
Because once the adrenaline wears off, the details come back in a row, demanding inventory.
The last shot.
The texture of the baby bottle.
Miriam’s insistence that we sleep.
The twins’ strange dream that night.
The absence of crying.
The speed with which death came after an apparently loving family visit.
The tests took some time, but not too long.
There were traces of a strong, improper, brutally improper sedative in the milk remains recovered from one of the bottles that police found in the trash outside Miriam’s house, where she thought no one would look.
