Part 1The Truth in Five Fingers

After our daughter's suicide, my husband threw a party with his friends to cheer me up.

After a few rounds of drinks, his childhood friend, Misty, suggested we play a game of "Never Have I Ever."

The rules were simple: if you haven't done the thing someone says, you fold down a finger. The first person to fold down all five fingers loses.

Misty went five times in a row.

I lost every single round.

And in doing so, I finally learned the real reason my daughter was dead.

I smiled, saying nothing as I pulled a revolver and a single bullet from my handbag.

"Now," I said. "Let's play a new game."

* * *

It was supposed to be a gathering to help me heal, to comfort me in the suffocating grief of losing my child.

That all changed the moment Misty walked in.

The door to the private lounge flew open, and she breezed in like a storm. "Sorry I'm late! I'll down three shots to make up for it!"

Without even a glance in my direction, she slid into the booth right next to my husband, Ryan, and draped an arm around his neck.

Ryan didn't push her away.

Misty bit the cap off a beer bottle with her teeth, then pressed her lips to his, pouring the entire bottle into his mouth. She tilted her head, her eyes locking with mine over the top of the bottle. "This is how the big boys drink. You don't mind, do you, Lena?"

Our friends exchanged nervous glances.

I, his wife, said nothing. I had been a statue since I’d arrived, my hands frozen on the handbag in my lap. My silence seemed to be a relief to the others, who quickly raised their glasses and started challenging Misty to drinking games.

A few rounds later, Misty's cheeks were flushed. She swayed slightly, a sly smile on her face. "You know what? We should play a game."

She held up five fingers. "I'll say something I've done. If you haven't done it, you fold one finger down. First one with all five fingers down loses and has to take a shot."

Everyone's interest was piqued. They all held up their hands, a circle of open palms. It was as if they had completely forgotten why we were here in the first place.

Misty, as the instigator, went first. She flicked her wrist, showing off a glittering sapphire bracelet. Her voice, sickly sweet, filled the room. "This is a Hawthorne family heirloom. Supposed to be passed down only to the daughter-in-law."

She shot a look at Ryan. "But my Ry-Ry stole it from his mom and gave it to me back in high school! I bet none of you have one of these, right?"

The room fell silent. Everyone looked at me, the air thick with embarrassment.

I stared at the bracelet, a vague sense of recognition stirring. It took me a long moment to place it. I had once asked Ryan to use a matching photo for our social media profile pictures. He’d refused, and it had turned into a massive fight, one where he’d even threatened to break up. We made up, but we never spoke of it again. The picture he had refused to change, the one he held onto so fiercely, was of a hand wearing that exact sapphire bracelet.

I lowered my eyes to the plain gold band on my own ring finger and slowly, deliberately, folded down my thumb. I said nothing.

Someone tried to smooth things over. "Come on, Misty, you're always over at Lena's place. You two are like sisters. Give us some real secrets!"

Misty laughed. "Of course! Lena and I are thick as thieves. I even made her a special turtle soup once! Bet none of you have done that!"

A friend immediately jeered. "No way! You, a tomboy, know how to cook?"

She lifted her chin smugly. "Tossing a few things in a pot isn't rocket science. It's nothing compared to the hard work a man does out in the world."

My mind, rusted and slow, began to turn. After a long moment, my lips parted. "What turtle soup?"

I had never had any soup made by Misty.

The friends nudged her, teasing. "Aha! You're cheating just to win!"

Misty's eyes narrowed into a grin. Her voice dropped, but every word was crystal clear. "It was when Lena was three months pregnant with her first. I was just learning to cook, so I made her a special tonic. A wild pheasant and turtle soup."

The moment she spoke, the phantom scent of something thick and cloying filled my nostrils. A sticky, medicinal odor mixed with the metallic tang of blood, piercing the deepest part of my memory.

I remembered my first pregnancy. Ryan had brought me a bowl of murky, black liquid, telling me it was good for my health. I'd spooned up a small, hard piece, like a fragment of a shell. Before I could ask what it was, Ryan had snatched it and thrown it in the trash. He held the spoon to my lips. "Misty made this especially for you. Don't be picky."

I had touched my slightly swelling belly and obediently opened my mouth, finishing the entire bowl. Not a drop was left.

That night, a dull ache started in my abdomen. By the time I realized what was happening, blood had soaked through the bedsheets.

In the emergency room, the doctor shook his head. He said I'd consumed too many "cooling" foods. The baby was gone.

The moment I was off the operating table, my mother-in-law's hand cracked across my face. She called me a gluttonous, stupid pig who couldn't even protect her own child.

But from the day I found out I was pregnant, I checked the ingredients of every cookie I ate. How could I have been so careless?

When I got home from the hospital, I searched the house like a madwoman. I tasted sauces, spices, freezer-burned meat from the back of the fridge, even the water in the toilet tank. I swallowed everything. If I threw it up, I forced it back down.

Everyone said I had lost my mind.

But I just needed to know. I needed to know what I had eaten that had turned my developing child into a piece of dead flesh.

I lifted my eyes and stared at Misty's triumphant face.

And now, I finally understood.

It was never about what I ate.

It was about who I trusted.